


Amputate

by sfumatosoup



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dark, Depression, Disfigurement, Drug Abuse, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Feelings!, Fever Dreams, Frottage, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Kink, Mental Illness, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Obsession, Oral Sex, PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Scars, Scent Kink, Sexual Content, Sleep Deprivation, Stockholm Syndrome, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Victim Blaming, Voyeurism, injuries, needle sharing, so many feelings, touch starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 81,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfumatosoup/pseuds/sfumatosoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set two years post Hong Kong, Tiago is still recovering from psychological and physical trauma he endured after his many months in captivity. His freelance work allows him to take on a new client.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frozenthoughtbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozenthoughtbox/gifts).



His dreams are rarely literal which is a mercy and a curse.

There is a hole like a gaping maw and he stands at the precipice.

The dark is impenetrable, an endless black.

There is an enormous gash bisecting him from throat to groin. He reaches inside himself and pulls out his heart. He looks at the organ swollen with disease and black with necrosis and feels nothing but repulsion.

He never really remembers dropping it, but he always remembers it smashing at the bottom and shattering, splintering into millions of silvery shards.

The shards liquefy and coalesce into a clear pool with a still, glassy surface.

He sees himself.

He wakes.

He is shaking and cold and gasping, face down in his pillow; soaked with sweat and tears and fear and hate. He vomits into the nearest receptacle at his bedside and curls into a fetal position, throat raw and mouth sour and hopes to disappear.

 

///

 

His sleep is dreamless when he takes the right cornucopia of pharmaceuticals, but the price is steep as he often spends the following day in a fog that he cannot afford in his line of work.

He shoots up anyway because fuck it. 

He carelessly discards the needle, letting it roll from his slackened fingers to the floor and slips into oblivion.

 

///

 

Somewhere deep beneath the earth is a castle made of wires and screens and the gentle humming of machines, and the conductor of this symphony orchestrates his empire from behind many masks.

He vacillates between a state of diaphanous lucidity and chemical delirium and reality is fragile and often a matter of perspective.

A distant beeping signals his client checking in.

The veil dissolves and Tiago is thrust into consciousness. He blinks his eyes several times resentfully and flips on the comm.

“What can I do you for, agent?”

Muffled static is the reply he receives followed by a garbled, “10-33”, which doesn't immediately concern Tiago because the man may be young but he's proven himself professionally.

He wouldn't typically take on a client so close to mommy, but James was an exception because he is exceptional.

“What's your 20?”

He adjusts the mic when there's no response, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and squinting against the light of the screen. He pulls up the schematics for the control bunker beneath the service runway and scans the screen but the GPS seems to have lost signal with it's base, and James' little red dot has vanished.

“Radio check, 07, do you copy?”

“Over.”

“10-20,” he repeats.

“Elevator shaft.”

“Oof.” Tiago mutters, “That's deviating off course, James, what's the mess you've landed yourself in this time?”

“Scattered patrol toward the west end.”

Tiago commandeers command of the installation's cameras and pans left down the corridor and sure enough, Jame's assessment is accurate.

His client is trapped beneath the elevator and if he climbs out he'll be exposed, if he doesn't, he will be crushed.

Extricating 07 will involve a larger expenditure than he will receive in return for services rendered, but terms can be renegotiated. 

///


	2. Chapter 2

Sweat pours down Tiago's back as he tears through the coding to stop the lift.

Every second is precious.

“I hadn't envisioned retiring from my career as unrecognizable mush, Silva,” James pleads, a note of irony in his tone. Tiago can't help but grin with a wild sort of violence that stretches painfully against the recent post-surgical scarring and he tastes sharp metal.

“You know I'll get you back in one handsome piece, my dear.”

“With your rates I better,” 07 retorts.

The agent's harsh panting drowns out all else and Tiago's hands are an adrenaline fueled blur across the keyboard. He smashes in the final thread of instruction with a vibrating, manic triumph and hears the lift screeching to a halt before spitting out the blood into a wad of hastily retrieved tissues.

“Thank bloody god,” James gasps with palpable relief over the comm.

Tiago nearly chokes when he glances back at the monitor, 4 blue dots quickly surrounding the compartment the red dot is trapped beneath.

“Merda,” he mutters at the same time he hears his client's breath catch.

“Shit,” James agrees, “Well thanks for trying.”

Before he can improvise a coherent solution; a flurry of panicked half-formed plans tearing through his brain, a deafening din of ripping metal and mortar thunders over the comm. His heart in his throat, Tiago listens in desperate helplessness as muffled, angry shouting overwhelms the connection before it is abruptly terminated. 

He's failed.

Rage splits through Tiago and blind with fury, he seizes his glass and hurtles it across the room. It shatters loudly against the wall and he clutches the desk, his nails splitting viciously against the surface.

It takes a moment before the roaring in his head abates and defeated, he collapses back into his chair. The agony is almost unbearable.

He loathes that he allowed himself to get too close.

Though, he is certain it wasn't entirely a conscious decision.

07 had contacted him via channels he had thought he'd secured against. Initially he was furious at himself for allowing such a breach and was determined to eliminate the threat. But then, his curiosity had always been his destruction.

Tiago agreed to work with the MI6 spy because clearly, if the man was foolhardy enough to sneak beneath the legal fold in order to contract the formidable Raoul Silva, then who was Tiago to deny his services?

In his line of work, Silva operated a professionally recognized impartial, non-discriminatory sort of enterprise and typically avoided aiding most causes directly associated with his old-employer, but then he'd reconsidered the old axiom that one should keep their friends close but their enemies closer.

Not once in their association did they meet in person, Raoul Silva was far too cautious for such exposure. Hired by the agent in the capacity of a substitution for the limited assistance supplied by a deficient and outdated Q branch, Silva offered a vastly superior service.

Initially, he was surprised to find himself so easily entertained by James sharp wit and unapologetic, unflagging arrogance, but then revealed beneath the erudite, carefully manufactured polish was an underlying grit and Tiago was utterly charmed. 

And then his initial motivation for ensuring a connection to MI6 had become somewhat skewed as Tiago's professional interest transformed into something wholly personal. Through a clinical lens, he recognized his fascination probably was based in some sort of distorted, nostalgic narcissism. They were almost like two sides of the same coin: looking at James Bond was like looking at one version of himself, but something better-- brighter.

He'd become familiar with the agent's style and couldn't help but admire the ruthless ambition-- he had a certain zeal and reckless moxy that defined him from his contemporaries in a way that Tiago knew would promise the young man quick advancement if he was ever able to temper his professional ambivalence.

He'd once upon a time been the same.

Perhaps this is what had inevitably led to M's betrayal. James could just as easily be disposed of if he was too careless.

The resulting gutted horror Tiago experienced when his thoughts would stray to this potentiality should have clued him in that perhaps his self-indulgent preoccupation with his client was devolving into unhealthy territory.

In the end, a seed had been planted and the roots had firmly settled. The fact that James Bond was about the job and not the employer was a very seductive vulnerability he could, given the right words and resources, take advantage of. Countless times, Tiago had to fight the temptation to make a formal proposition.

What stayed the offer was respect; not for the man's peculiar, unswerving loyalty to Queen and Country, but for the man himself and anyway, the planets were simply not in position to begin the harvest.

And then the mission was completed and they parted ways and for a time, Tiago kept himself busy as Raoul Silva, expanding his business, developing his network, tinkering away on his computers. Only sometimes he slipped and cursed himself for not trying harder to get what he wanted. He tried not to let himself miss the jumped-up little shit he'd hopelessly and reluctantly grown overly fond of.

Months passed.

He was over it.

Tiago promised himself if James came to him for further assistance he'd employ an intermediary to list a discouragingly outrageous rate the agent would never be able to explain away in any expense reports to his superiors.

And then, one morning, James was back without warning and Tiago had eagerly accepted a discreet job in Belarus without even a mention of remuneration easily dumping off several prospective clients ahead of the agent in line with far more in their pockets.

Tiago was far too easy and he should have been embarrassed about it.

His existence was bleak but James was a beacon of light and he coveted and despaired every moment they had to speak because it only further nurtured the fledgeling, orphan hope that insisted he didn't have to be alone.

But he would be alone. James would go in the end and it would be so much worse this time.

Once, sounding over-tired and maybe a little inebriated, the agent had asked if Silva's electronically modified voice was really a necessity, and Tiago, sensing a rare opportunity and seized with some sort of masochistic impulse, asked the agent if he was lonely.

The line had gone silent and Tiago, suddenly self-conscious and feeling far too exposed instantly began to formulate a method to casually save face, turning over ways he could make the question seem more innocuous, as if it had been in jest. Something he could sweep under the rug and occlude with enough morphine and SSRIs.

Then quietly, and with a humble sort of honesty he had no shield against, James replied that sometimes he'd like to remember there was a man and not a machine on the other end and Tiago, staggered by the admission just nearly turned off the distortion; just nearly spoke something he'd regret, but then, deflecting, accused the agent of not getting out much and told him to get a girl.

They'd both laughed.

He'd never felt so undone.

So ensconced in the job as they were, rarely was James not a voice in his ear, and often when he was not, it seemed the man was in his mind regardless. Sometimes, Tiago could not be sure all of their conversations had actually happened or were just auditory hallucination; the blurred lines, such as they were, remained undefined.

In rare moments of sobriety at the ebbing of the tranqs, he wondered if he was not just a little bit in love.

Before Hong Kong, there had been many that had come and gone, but there had only been one allowance carved out for any deeper feeling and that had been terribly misplaced.

He suffered grievous physical reminders of that mistake.

But then this could be different he told himself in a delusional high. 

He'd amble around in tangential daydreams dissecting the many intricacies of this handsome man he'd only ever seen displayed in the glittering screens of his computers and permit himself to idly imagine the phantom voice as a man, flesh and blood and his.

They would sit together and share a drink. They would talk aimlessly for hours about everything and nothing and just be content to have someone else to be with. To be beside. James would smile and look at him without flinching and without pity. He would look at him gladly. They could mean something to each other that no else could in a world that was dangerous and lonely and unforgiving.

At night, sometimes he closes his eyes and imagines that it's James touching him.

If James dies, he will upturn the world and burn it all down.

Little else matters.

Tiago slumps forward, cradling his face in his upturned hands.

After a long stretch of silence he summons the wherewithal to glance back at his computer. His regret is a piercing ache. He follows the captured red dot as it's escorted by the blue through the west wing and he knows this story.

Weakly, Tiago breaks into the network on the Western facility narrowing in on the holding cell and watches as his client is brutishly tossed to the floor at the feet of his captors. James lands hard before he raises his eyes, his expression blank as he mutely observes his enemies, their faces cold and hungry with violence.  

Through the gloom in his periphery, Tiago's walls pulsate with a threatening claustrophobic aura and a creeping primal fear twists his gut into thick knots. He shivers convulsively, fighting the urge to be sick.

He barely recognizes making the order for a rescue-op; his voice sounds detached, distant and mechanical and he reaches for the needle.

Tightening the tourniquet, he pushes on the vein, taps and injects.

Instantly his heart rate plummets.

Tiago powers down all systems. The dim light overhead flickers and he turns away from the reflection of his ruined visage in the black screen.

Time stretches.

He flicks the off switch and stands, immersed within the cloying dark and breathes slowly, pressing his forehead against the cool door.

Blindly he navigates his way through the pitch black narrow tunnel by sense of habit alone. The moment the silence is interrupted by a sharp crack of static, Tiago feels a stab of anxiety though it is blunted by the drugs swimming through his veins.

“Silva, over. The client has been recovered and is in transport.”

He leans heavily against the wall for support before he can reply.

“Repeat, Silva, do you copy?”

“Report on status?”

“The ops are down,” the henchman replies uncertainly.

“I mean my client,” Tiago insists. His lips have gone numb and he's not entirely sure he can form words for much longer, “Is he...”

“He's been shot, Sir, but he's been stabilized... there's been some considerable blood loss.”

“Alert the medics team, get them here... stat,” Tiago orders trying feebly for a tone of command.

He unsteadily regains some semblance of balance but the corridor lengthens inexplicably and the walls are liquid.

Tiago's mouth is full of pennies and his chin is wet.

He doesn't make it to his bed before he forgets how to move his feet, the world is tilting on it's axis and then Tiago finds himself on the floor though doesn't remember how he came to be there but it's safe here and everything slides away to nothing. 


	3. Chapter 3

A muffled beeping permeates through the dense, smothering nothingness and for a moment Tiago struggles to shake himself out of his fugue-like state of post-opiate, comatic paralysis; an unwilling prisoner in his own body. 

The claustrophobia jars him to immediate awareness and as if having been submersed too long beneath the iciest of water, he bursts forth from the invisible cage and a shock of cold air pierces his lungs. He rolls to his side, seized with a fit of hacking, unmanageable coughing and when at last the spasms subside, Tiago collapses back, reduced to a shuddering, shaking mess. 

It takes a moment to register his surroundings and process the origin of the incessant, infernal noise. Squinting through the dark Tiago sees the green light of his headset blinking somewhere within an arm's length and shakily reaches for it, his hands fumbling clumsily to switch on the transmission. 

“Go ahead,” Tiago replies, unsteadily. 

"You alright, Sir?" 

"Never better," he lies through gritted teeth. Tiago feels his stomach lurch but swallows back the sour bile burning a trail up his esophagus, "Report?"

“-Client is out of surgery and immobilized for transport. Arrival estimated for an hour-twenty.”

“Good,” Tiago replies, inhaling slowly in an attempt to regain his equilibrium as his vision spins the room nauseatingly around him, “that's good. Were there any survivors?”

“Only the head officer.”

“No spares?”

“The blast got the bulk of them, and the rest were dealt with,” Rico announces with a cavalier professional pride that Tiago values highly in his best paid assassin. 

Almost an afterthought, he wonders about the man's unusually congested speech. 

“Has there been some trouble?” 

“How do you mean, Sir?”

“You sound like you've got a cold,” Tiago clarifies, stretching his stiff, aching limbs to stave off cramping from the long, unanticipated expanse spent intimately acquainted with the cold, hard floor. “It's really inconsiderate. It would be incredibly inconvenient to have you out of commission right now.” 

Rico snorts derisively, “Touched by your concern, boss, but I'm okay. Crazy bitch got me a good one in the nose when I was detaining him.”

“Ah,” Tiago notes, amused with the knowledge that when he grants permission, his employee will be eager to exact revenge in a most creative and fitting manner upon their poorly behaved detainee. 

“Cameras?” 

“I had the team on it, Sir, all were dismantled, footage erased.” 

"My client's personal affects?"

"Retrieved."

“Well handled, Rico,” Tiago commends, applauding himself for assembling such an insightful, thorough staff. 

“Thank you, Sir... um.” 

There is a momentary pause that concerns him. He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. 

“Was there something else?”

“Sir,” his employee responds haltingly, “Do you-- do you not think it would be wiser to admit him to a hospital? The medics team they... the Doctor thinks he will need round-the-clock care for at least the next 48 hours.”

“He will have vastly superior care supplied to him under my watch than any place else,” Tiago informs shortly, “Honestly, Rico, do I pay you to question me?”

“No, Sir.” 

Repentant. That's good. It's good he remembers to assert authority. It's good he can do so while laying in a pool of his own, cooling, stinking sick from his body unconsciously purging itself of the poisons he fills it with. Tiago rolls out of it and peels off his sodden shirt, careful to keep from knocking off his headset. 

In any case, he does not need to explain himself. Regardless of his own personal reasons to have James brought to his underground fortress for convalescence, the agent would never forgive his anonymity compromised which a stint in a hospital would certainly expose. 

“Arrive unescorted to my base, wheel the gurney into the cargo lift with the necessary provisions... ensure you are not followed. If you are, report immediately.”

“Of course, Sir.” 

“Oh, and there is one other teensy-weensy little problem I need you to fix,” Tiago adds placing an emphatic inflection on the word 'problem' and he can almost hear Rico's mad, toothy, expectant grin. Like feeding a dog a bone, he grants the go-ahead. “Extract what's necessary and discard of the rest. If he's good, don't be too messy.”

“It would be my pleasure, Mister Silva.”

“Don't have too much fun, Rico,” Tiago reminds the assassin before switching off the comm. 

\--

Preparation takes little effort, as Tiago, by habit keeps his living space orderly and uncluttered. It's even self-indulgently fashionable and he dares to think his guest may even be impressed by the comfort of what will soon be his new lodgings for some, yet indeterminate length of time. 

Tiago medicates appropriately, showers thoroughly and grooms himself fastidiously. 

He dresses in a precise, impeccably-cut, sleek suit tailored to inspire with a fitted vest and a patternless, burgundy tie finished with a diamond pin and knows he will present as sufficiently polished when the ensemble is complete. 

After sterilizing and reinserting the prosthesis, he runs a tongue along the cool plastic rim fitting it into place. He shaves away a mess of uneven stubble and dabs a gel carefully along the angry, pink and mottled scarring that twists many paths under his eye and below his jaw line before placing a gauze padding which will buffer the newly healed skin-grafts from chafing beneath the mask. 

The mask is set over the ruin, and has a dual purpose: to conceal and protect. It's fastened carefully into position and he looks every bit the comic book super villain. Tiago's laugh is dark and self-deprecating. 

It will suffice.

\--

Raoul Silva receives his guest and sends Rico away with the order that he will take the helm and carry on business in his stead until otherwise notified.

Dutifully, he wheels the gurney into the spare room beside his own he has modified to suit his recovering patient. Undoing the tangle of IV cords he situates everything appropriately and then, spares himself a moment to observe.

He barely dares to breathe and does not yet allow himself to touch though his hands tremble at his sides where they long to reach out at the mere thought that he could. He clenches them tightly and steadies himself. 

In sleep, James expression is not softened. His fortunate bone structure is made severe by hollow, drawn cheeks and hard lines that frame his pale, chapped, down-turned lips. His eyes are circled by bruised rings and flutter back and forth beneath blue, waxen lids, restless and anxious, sunken and shadowed like a wraith.

Tiago relents, gently stroking back the unruly mess of overgrown bangs that clutter the man's clammy forehead but draws away quickly, flinching as James restlessly stirs.

He waits several moments hoping the morphine and dilaudid cocktail are still pumping through his client's system to their full effect. He doesn't risk administering more; James' heart rate is lower than normal as it is and he doesn't relish the thought of accidentally sending the man into cardiac arrest even if he does have a backup cache of adrenaline and a dusty defibrillator close at hand. 

Assured that the man is not about to wake, he resumes the careful exploration, knowing he's taking advantage but his control is tenuous and secondary to the impulsive desire to commit James to somatic tangibility. He needs the affirmation  
because his fractured mind has conjured this very moment in the thralls of delirium before and Tiago can no longer bank on blind faith; proof is in the pudding. 

Bowing low, he nestles his nose behind the unconscious man's ear and breathes in deeply, drinking in the salty sweat and spicy sweetness that lay beneath the sterile, cloying hospital soap. He detects a faint note of something woodsy and masculine, a fading, lingering combination of aftershave and something wholly James. It is heady and arousing and Tiago is lightheaded and hard as a rock. 

His fingers trace a delicate trail over the pliant mouth and revel in the warmth of the shallow exhalations and he suddenly wants to feel the slip of air pass from James into himself and share their combined essence. 

He hovers near enough for their lips to touch and ghosts above with the temptation but refrains. Instead, Tiago inhales the warm gust of air, stale but sweet and savors it unable to recall the last time he felt such exhilaration at the mere sensation of sharing a breath with another living being.

Tiago groans softly and adjusts himself more comfortably in the confines of his trousers as he leisurely permits himself to savor the nearness for a moment too long and suddenly he is staring into James' startling, blue eyes, watching him warily and nearly cross-eyed with their focus and proximity. Tiago nearly jumps out of his skin. 

“James!” Tiago yelps, jerking upward, his tone perhaps a touch too shrill for his own liking. Straightening his lapel, he collects himself with forced dignity and steps half a foot back to reinstate a safe distance but quickly puts a hand on James shoulder to push him back down when the man hastily tries to sit up. Immediately the agent's face twists in sharp pain and he flops back down, winded. 

Tiago winces in sympathy, “You really shouldn't do that just yet. You need to relax.” 

Still doped-up and hazy, James gives his all to offer him the best non-plussed expression he can muster. 

“So, you're awake,” Tiago announces redundantly. 

James blinks at him and his mouth twists into a scowl. 

“Well of course you are,” Tiago grins, “welcome, to my home, my friend, your new home away from home. Mi casa es su casa. At least, for a little while.”

“Who are you and where the hell am I?” he demands, words slurred and voice hoarse with disuse, “And why the hell do I feel like I've been run over by a freight train?” 

“9 mm in the thigh, nearly knicked the femoral artery. You lost a lost of blood. You're really rather lucky.”

“I don't feel lucky. Was a boulder dropped on my chest too?”

“Few broken ribs, nothing too serious.”

James is silent and watching him speculatively. It's unnerving. 

“What?”

“What were you doing?”

Tiago raises an eyebrow, “What do you mean?” 

“When I woke. Just now.”

Unabashed, Tiago grins with utter nonchalance and shrugs airily, “Checking to see if you were alive or not.”

“With your face?” James retorts unconvinced.

“I was listening for your breathing.”

“Didn't trust the machines?”

“It doesn't hurt to err on the side of caution,” Tiago defends breezily. 

“No, I suppose not,” James sighs, “Well... can you brief me or is there someone else I ought to be talking to?” 

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather rest for awhile?” Tiago offers, “We can always continue this conversation later.”

“No.” Tiago watches his client shuffle awkwardly up onto his pillows and resists the urge to assist. “I'm fine. I'd rather hear it all now rather than later.”

He pauses and looks down at his lap with a naked misery the drugs have loosened his guard enough to reveal, “I want to know how badly I botched the whole thing.”

“Botched?” He prompts, curious. James glares at Tiago with a hostility he doubts is actually meant for him. 

“Yes, botched. Failed, after months of careful planning. Getting caught, beaten and shot.”

“I assure you, you have failed nothing, what went down was out of your hands. Unfortunate, yes, but nothing you could have prevented.” Tiago assuages, “Your mission is still salvageable but for now is shelved until you're better.”

“Lars Henrickson?”

“In custody being interrogated.”

“In who's custody?”

“Mine.” 

“Where?”

“Elsewhere,” Tiago replies dismissively, "unimportant."

Tiago can see James is considering this information, mulling it over thoughtfully. 

“And who exactly are you,” the agent asks bluntly, “I don't believe we've been properly introduced, yet you know who I am.” 

“I do know you, 07,” Tiago confirms, “And you know me. I'm disappointed you haven't even tried to guess.” 

He feels slightly unhinged; a little giddy. A little reckless. 

“Come now, my dear,” he bates, “Who else could possibly have known exactly where you were to find you and come to the rescue at a drop of a hat?”

James studies him without a glimmer or recognition sparking his features, and truly, Tiago laments how dulled he is by the drugs. He relents. 

“We speak to each other on fairly regular basis.” 

To his consternation, James expression remains blank. 

“You've got nothing,” he prods, annoyed, “Honestly? You hurt me deeply.”

The agent closes his eyes and frowns and Tiago is genuinely unable to interpret this underwhelming lack of reaction. 

“Forgive me if I find it a little unusual to fit this image of the masked muskateer with some electronically distorted voice I've heard in my ear nearly every waking moment for the half a year.”

“Do you find the mask disconcerting?”

“No less so than the modified voice I suppose,” James admits looking at him with undisguised exhaustion before resting an arm across his eyes. “I won't ask.” 

“It's better if you don't,” Tiago agrees. 

“I also imagine it would be ungracious if I failed to thank you.”

He's touched and a little brittle. A little breathless. James, when his words are soft catches Tiago somewhere between the ribs and he finds it hard to immediately mask the smitten, tender expression he can feel flit across his face. 

“You're very welcome.”

The agent peers out from beneath his arm and side-eyes him curiously. 

“Why go to the trouble, Silva?”

Tiago has no immediate explanation prepared to offer. 

“You're my client. It's my job.”

James looks at him skeptically but he has sense enough in spite of the new pump of morphine he's released into his system to refrain from remarking on the obvious. It stands there between them anyway; an elephant in the room.

“My name is Tiago.”

James nods with easy acceptance and his face slackens, eyelids drooping heavily. 

Their exchange, like many others they've had before, ends without really ending and Tiago can tell the agent has succumbed to the drip. 

Careful not to disturb the sleeping man, he pulls the blanket up to his chin, sucks in a quiet shaky breath and leaves the room quietly. 

\--


	4. Chapter 4

There is a beast and it chases.

It is a faceless, nameless horror; savage and unrelenting. 

Always, always when he sees it he is running; unencumbered, limber and athletic, fueled by instinct, the fear abates-- adrenaline licks through his limbs and he soars on the buzz of endorphins; he is a rabbit, the beast is a hawk; he is a gazelle bounding gracefully in quick, coordinated motion from the lion.

Once, on one of his first solo missions, when M was still stretching him to feel out his limits, he was assigned the task of dispatching a violent gang of arms traffikers.

Immersed deep in the heart of the congo, he cased their compound and readied himself for a simple job. 

He remembers distinctly the stench of acrid putrefaction that stung the humid air, the miserable way it hung heavily around him, clinging like a second skin. 

It was dark and guards strapped with AK-74's paced the perimeter, traversing up and down well-beaten paths near to where he crouched, patient and silent, hidden behind the rusting remains of a dilapidated encampment. Nearby, a guard released a pen of hungry, squealing pigs. 

The horde of meaty bodies slapped against each other as they trampled through the squalor and splashed into the fetid sewage to ravage the remains of a rival gang; their corpses haphazardly tossed into a reeking ditch swarming with scavenging flies. 

Tiago cringed against the wet sound of flesh and tendon ripping from bone and remembered when he stood no higher than eye-level with the meat case filled with rows and rows of fresh, red and white, marbled slabs stacked side-by-side on display, the cool glass damp with a hazy film of condensation.

Behind the counter, hollowed carcasses, dried and smoked hung alongside varying lengths of sausage links and Tiago curiously would run his fingers along his chest to feel his own ribs beneath shirt and skin, marveling at the arching shape so like those dangling from the rafters.

Tightly he would grip his grandmothers hand as they waited for the fat, old man with the soiled, blood-streaked apron to come through the swinging doors with their order, a neatly wrapped parcel containing what would be their evening's supper. 

In those day the nearest butcher shop on the coast of the mainland was attached directly to the slaughterhouse and the crumbling, antiquated walls were thin. 

A deep, rolling, celebratory laughter erupted from the far side of the camp as Tiago loaded the magazine into it's slot while mosquitoes buzzed his ears and sucked at his face. 

Once the pigs were herded and penned back behind the barbed fencing, one of the guards called to the other, waving him over. Curious, Tiago peered through the clearing as the guards held aloft their lamps. 

Carelessly they cleared away a mess of tangled brush, exposing a nest of frightened, mewling tiger cubs. Their newly-opened eyes slitted and sensitive to the bright artificial lantern light, they stumbled clumsily in their haste to duck away from the imposing strangers. 

Tiago watched as the two men bent over to inspect their find. 

Prodding at the defenseless, tender clump of squirming fur with the barrel of his gun, the burly, meaner-looking guard separated one of the cubs from it's litter-mates and grabbing it by the scruff, dangled it high in the air, mouth curling in cruel amusement. The cub squeaked it's protest until the guard bared his teeth and hissed at the trembling animal. Raising it's hackles and displaying it's tiny, sharp milk-teeth the small cat hissed back with terrified, instinctive mimicry. 

The first guard frowned unhappily. 

In a hushed, cluttered hybrid somewhere between Bantu and French the men argue-- the one intent on profiting from their discovery, both ignorant to the lapse in their base's defense Tiago opportunistically plots to exploit. 

As soundlessly as possible, he affixed the silencer to his sniper with a soft click and aimed it balanced against his shoulder through the tall grass at his targets, knee braced into the dirt to prepare for kickback when a low, feral growl rumbled through the reeds behind him stirring the small hairs on the back of his neck. In spite of the sweltering heat, Tiago shivered, freezing in place. 

Slowly, he angled his head, squinting into the dense mass of black and two spots like red stars gleamed out from the concealing jungle back at him. 

For an immeasurable moment, he returned the steady gaze, heart caught in his throat before the eyes cast their focus back onto the oblivious guards. Motionless, Tiago watched as the tiger silently stalked through the shadows before crouching, her belly pressed to the earth, haunches rippling with premeditation; tense before launching.

The mother lunged onto her unwitting victims; a striped, avenging angel. Tiago watched as the rescued cub, immediately forgotten, dropped unharmed to the ground and scampered away. 

The strangled screams quickly roused the others and men came running toward the site of the fray unleashing panicked rounds into the large animal until at last, it collapsed. Both guards lay-- one convulsing in a pool of his own blood, clutching helplessly at the mess of intestines torn from his belly while the other, bulkier of the two, emit a wet, helpless gurgle from his torn throat before staring off into the aether in glassy-eyed vacancy.

Seizing upon the confusion, Tiago, predisposed to quick resolution, cleanly dispatched the rest. One by one they fell like flies. 

Silence settled upon the clearing. 

Inured to the massacre strewn about the camp, he stepped out from his hiding spot to collect the orphaned cubs. Along the way, the guard with his guts spilling into the mud whimpered pitifully catching Tiago's attention. He looked down at the man's face crumpled in agony, cheeks wet with streaks of tears and noticed for the first time how young the man was; perhaps tall for his age but barely out of youth. The boy looked at him and begged to be spared /or/ helped and Tiago, uncertain of the exact translation was momentarily confused. 

[“There is nothing I can do for you,”] he explains in a broken facsimile of the boy's native tongue. 

With a rattling breath he instead asks for mercy and Tiago grants the dying wish, pulling the trigger.

Nothing happens and the boy moans.

Sighing, he reloads the rifle and sets it gently between two, watery brown eyes.

[“Please,”] the boy weeps and Tiago unloads the chamber into his skull. 

At close range, the head explodes, splattering Tiago with a thick layer of gore and brain matter and frowning at his lack of foresight, he washes himself down at the pump. The water is foul but he's already drenched with sweat, surrounded in death and baptized in another man's blood. 

He is alone, but the jungle comes alive, birds cawing from the trees and creatures rustling in the underbrush. 

After raiding the camp he finds what he's looking for in a shed among shelves of canned peas and re-purposed weaponry. 

Kicking aside spent shells littering the sodden ground, he digs a hole and is still digging when the sun peaks over the horizon. He grabs the giant paws of the dead cat and drags the heavy body until it tumbles over the edge into the fresh grave. He uses what little remains of his strength to bury the boy. The abandoned cubs huddle together, mournful. Nature will provide or they will be lost to it. 

When all was finished that night, he released the pigs and let them to their feast. 

The beast, like the tiger is a calculable measure of sin, and the more Tiago racks up in debt the faster his damnation will hunt him down. 

For now, he escapes it, clambering through thick swells of vegetation, the thorned spines ravaging his flesh as he struggles, nearly sightless toward the only destination he ever seeks. 

His heart thuds wildly beneath his chest; whole and new and regenerated for the tribute. 

In the distance he can hear the beast, having lost scent of it's prey, howling it's fury. 

The world slows, enshrouding Tiago in a velvet curtain of black pierced through by shimmering stars where the constellations come alive. It is a blanket and it is warm and he remembers his grandmother tucking him into his bed when he was small.

She lulled him to sleep with whispered stories about the sky; it is an old friend; constant in it's infinite variety.

Tonight the moon is a thumb-nail sliver , waning toward the end of it's cycle. 

The earth trembles beneath his feet and he is balancing precariously upon the quaking edge, the chasm is hungry and it too, like the beast, begs to be fed. 

A siren mirage seduces him forward and Tiago draws the blade out from it's sheath driving it deep into the pit of his gut. Kneeling, he bleeds and bleeds until the oppressive greed is sated and lays himself down beside the cloudy, brackish pool. 

He is made of the empty space between atoms, and the universe merges within. He swells and expands with it and is healed but not whole. 

Then, somewhere on the cusp, he comes to him: James the Soldier, James, the Champion, James the Prince of hearts, the Cup bearer, the Lover. 

He presses him with kisses warm like summer and takes and takes until Tiago is consumed and melts into his sheets with desperate lust. He ruts upward arching into his lover's touch and then the dream begin to slips and despairing Tiago wakes, fully, painfully aroused and crushed by loss. James the Ghost lingers on the fringe and he brings himself to completion before collapsing back into his pillows. His hand loosely remains wrapped around his softening cock and the wet strands of semen across his belly stick him to the sheets. 

In the room next-door, James sleeps on, oblivious and Tiago, sated but not satisfied longs to steal him into this mess of spilled bliss and curl around him. 

He pulls himself out of bed and though he has no appetite, he hopes James will have found his own.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: definitely some dub-con touching. It isn't specifically sexual per say, but certain parties are definitely not conscious. Also, medical-kink, although not really intentionally.

After injecting himself, the tremor in Tiago's hands subside after a minute or two and he is ready to tend to his patient who is thankfully still quite dead to the world. 

Before, James has slept like a corpse, but now he is sprawled in a loose, boneless mess of limbs, his blankets kicked off and laying in disarray at the foot of the bed. Tiago takes the blanket, untangling it from his patient's feet and tosses it aside before carefully pulling down the sheets to his patient's scabbed, bruised knees. 

Taking his time, he lifts James' gown, folding it up over his stomach to reveal the man's sculpted thighs and bared groin. There is a cross-hatched collection of both old and new scars that litter the landscape of the man's body; an encyclopedic manifesto of a dangerous lifestyle Tiago can tell spans beyond his short duration in MI6. His imagination carries him away for a moment too long and James' shivers with the cold, goosebumps bristling across his exposed skin. 

A light discoloration stains the bandage when Tiago undresses the wound but the angry pink flesh has receded around the scabbing. To prevent infection he wipes away the brown crust and James whimpers quietly in his sleep. 

In wordless apology, Tiago strokes back a stray lock of hair from his patient's damp forehead and lifts up his mask to press a kiss to the man's temple before resuming. As softly as possible, he dabs a liniment over the sutures before taping it over with a fresh bandage. 

Tiago licks his chapped lips with a tongue made out of sandpaper as he moves on to his next task.

James' limp member is pale and wrinkled, nestled within a thatch of coarse blonde pubic hair and there is a tube which extends from the spongy tip to a plastic bag hanging on the tower beside the already disconnected parenteral fluid.

Tenderly, Tiago strokes James' belly before flattening his palm over the subtle interplay of dense musculature. He soothes his hand up over the diaphragm below the bandaged ribcage and examines his patient for any tell-tale signs of swelling and James shifts in slight discomfort at the applied pressure, his mouth pinching in a slight frown. 

The monitor shows his pulse remains even which signals Tiago's ministrations haven't yet stirred his patient from unconsciousness. Bending in closer, he inhales the fragrant warmth of exposed flesh. 

Beneath the sanitary smell of iodine and soap, there is a scent; a musk that is thick with a spicy sleep-sweat and Tiago revels in it, yearning to take James into his mouth to commit the flavor to a pocket of memory he can revisit later on. 

From the prior doctoring James has begrudgingly allowed Tiago to administer when conscious, he has shown himself to be more of a private man than he'd anticipated, self-consciously guarding his physical autonomy with a jealousy that is rare to both a veteran of military service and a man boasting a belt as notched as his own. 

Tiago hasn't quite sussed out the cause, though he suspects James' sensitivity may be entirely circumstantial and have more to do with being at his mercy than any actual sense of sublimated shame.

He certainly has nothing to be ashamed of. 

Tiago slightly worries about James' reaction when he wakes to find himself liberated of the catheter without prior consent. Regardless, this notion only makes his current vulnerability all the more enticing.

He knows this ought to be a strictly clinical procedure, but there is something so intimate about caring for the man rendered to such helplessness, it's nearly erotic. Desire jets through Tiago and he is aflame with stolen power. 

It vibrates through him and his erection swells, throbbing against the cold steel where his hips are pressed against the metal bars of the gurney's raised bed-frame. Tiago shifts back and massages himself through his perfunctory, thin linen trousers and unbidden, James' name falls from him; the harsh whisper a hiss of air through gritted teeth. He strokes himself once more, though this hardly provides relief when his trembling fingers move to encapsulate James' sex for the first time. 

A hot warmth like electricity surges through him where he stands connected by simple touch and it's a tremulous, heady feeling. 

For a long moment, he takes the liberty to admire the weight and girth of the flaccid organ, cradling it lightly in the palm of his gloved hand. Tiago pauses briefly when he feels it twitch in his grasp and glances up quickly to watch James' face for signs of coming to, but his patient sleeps on, mouth slack and slightly open with a hint of drool collecting at the corner of his lips and pooling against the pillow. 

Removing the tube and discarding the half-full bag, Tiago returns to his patient with a damp towel. He cleans him with a thoughtful thoroughness, lifting his testicles to clean beneath before once again taking hold of Jame's penis. Slipping up the foreskin, he applies a salve around the red, chafed slit and under his gentle, over-lingering touch, the sleeping organ swells. 

A delicate flush has settled over the tops of James' cheeks and his breathing comes more rapidly despite his still somnolent state. Tiago finishes his task and takes one last reluctant look, taking his fill before unfolding the gown back over his patient's now half-hard cock, his own straining in doleful solidarity. With dutiful conscientiousness, he tucks James back under his sheet and turns down the drip before taking several paces back.

He counts to three and breathes. 

Tiago must prepare. Soon, James will wake and need assistance out of bed to use the toilet. He will be nauseous with hunger and will be antsy with questions. He will have forgotten nearly half of their previous conversation-- Tiago knows this because James is not accustomed to narcotics like he is.

Once more, he approaches and lovingly thumbs over the crease between Jame's brows smoothing it before threading his fingers through unruly tangles of unwashed hair. 

Tiago makes promises he wants to keep. 

His darling dreams on. 

\-- 

Under the hot spray of water, Tiago brings himself off in leisurely strokes clinging to a fantasy of devouring James mouth as he writhes within his firm grip. The sheets are thrown carelessly off of the bed and lay beneath the gurney as Tiago climbs atop. Bracing himself over the other he consumes him and the blonde lost in throes of ecstasy chants his name like a prayer against his throat and shudders his release. 

He calls him his own and Tiago is lost; they are one, they are the same; he spills over his fist and bites through his knuckles. The mirage dissipates into the steam of the shower as he sags against the cool tile. 

Turning off the shower, he steps out into the dim bathroom, his skin prickling with the chill. He casts away the towel and in the mirror he stands, a figure made of shadow, well-muscled but too thin for his frame and feels almost spectral. It is too dark to make out the scars and his cock dangles torpid between his legs like a black fruit hanging from a tree. 

The molded shield is replaced before he dares to raise the lights and eyes gleam back at him; distant stars, flickering with life through a lifeless, expressionless mask. 

He combs back his hair and wonders what it would look like blonde like James'. 

Tiago wonders what James sees when he looks back at his own reflection and burns with something between envy and greed. 

\--


	6. Chapter 6

Sure enough, “I have to piss,” is the first thing Tiago hears through the intercom as he's preparing their lunch. 

He pauses in the doorway and watches James with a laconic grin as he clumsily fumbles with the bedding, uncoordinated from several post-op, bed-ridden days. Sitting partway up with his good leg already slung over the edge, he tugs at the sheet he's currently trapped by with a harried scowl. 

Tiago sets down the tray with their lunch and strolls over to offer help and is rebuffed as expected with a grunt and a wave of banishment. He attempts to assist anyway and James yanks the sheet out his hands only to nearly tumble off the bed which he would have done had Tiago not been standing near enough to stabilize him. 

“Pride will set back your recovery, my dear,” Tiago admonishes, slinging his patient's arm around his neck. 

“Fine, just get me to the damned toilet before I piss myself,” James relents, face flushed with frustration. Grabbing Tiago's shoulder as an anchor, he pulls himself heavily from the bed and like a drunk on a bender completely loses balance the second he is upright which in turn just about wrenches Tiago's arm from his socket.

“Careful please,” Tiago winces, “You'll tear your stitches.”

Leaning almost entirely on him for support, Tiago escorts James in a stumbling hobble to the bathroom and at last, breathing harshly, James releases him and sits stiffly on the edge of the bathtub with a pained grimace. 

“1 to 10?”

“Goddamned 11, and my bladder's a 12.” 

“Anymore drugs and you'll be constipated for the next decade.”

“Good thing I've got nothing to shit out anyway.” 

James bows his head into his lap, rocking uncomfortably to abate the urgency.

“Swing your legs over the side and I'll help you stand,” Tiago instructs assisting James up from his crouch. 

“Piss in the tub?”

“It all goes the same place.” 

Supported upright and with shaking desperation, James yanks up his gown and grabs his dick, utterly indifferent to Tiago's presence and lets loose a hard stream of urine down the drain. His head drops back and he moans loudly in abject relief. 

Tiago hides a grin and gives up the charade of not looking. James rolls his eyes as he continues to empty his bladder. "Taking a lesson?"

"Observing your progress."

"If that's what they call it these days," James scoffs, "Not like you haven't seen the whole show anyway-- free admission."

"True enough," Tiago admits. 

“Christ,” he mutters, rocking back on the balls of his feet as he finishes. Giving himself a good shake, he drops down his gown and sags back limply in Tiago's arms. “Never have I been so thrilled to piss out fire.”

“That's normal after being catheterized. Give it a day or so,” he advises, turning on the faucet to wash out the tub. 

“I feel like I just ran a marathon. Can I get cleaned up?”

Tiago looks at James with an amused grin as he helps him climb over the edge of the tub, “Sponge bath?”

“That's all, right? Until the stitches come out,” James says, oblivious to the offer. 

“Absolutely correct.” 

After making their way back to the bedroom, James side-eyes him as he helps him settle onto a chair. “Do you volunteer to play nurse-maid to all your clients or am I just special?”

Tiago smirks and ignores the question as he rolls the portable lunch cart between them and pulls up a chair for himself. “Chicken or beef?”

“Beef. Can I have crackers?”

“Liquid until...”

“Until I shit, right?” 

Tiago points to a cup of thick, chalky liquid and grins at his patient. “Drink up.”

“So your name is Tiago?”

Tiago raises a surprised eyebrow, “You remember?”

James taps his skull, “Blessed with an exceptional memory.” 

He narrows his eyes at the agent and sips his broth. 

“Used to narcotics?”

“Are you?” James asks pointedly, glancing at Tiago's exposed arm. Frowning, he rolls down his sleeve to hide the track-marks from the other man's scrutiny. 

“Some story there, I imagine, with that,” James presses, “And you know, the mask.” 

“You're not asking.” 

James hesitates, battling between curiosity and good manners. 

“We're all damaged in some way or another, and I suppose we're both entitled to keep our own secrets,” he concedes carefully.

“Cheers,” Tiago grins, toasting James' viscous laxative with his glass of lemonade. 

“I'm MIA.”

“Until you've recovered.”

“Until you're done cleaning up my mess,” James amends with a note of apology. 

“I don't work for free,” Tiago reminds him. 

The agent sighs, pulling a weary hand down his face. “I'm not sure what you think I'm going to be able to pay you back with. The coffers have run a bit dry on my end, which I'm certain you're at least half aware of if not completely to blame for.”

“Hey now,” Tiago defends raising his hands, “If you've got a complaint, drop it in the box by the exit.”

“The one that drops me into the crocodile pit?”

“Bulls-eye.”

Pushing aside his tray, he leans forward on the table folding his hands in front of him. “We're both old hands at doing a bit of business, I'm sure we can reach an agreement.” 

“What do you want, state secrets? An inside man?” James scoffs, “You might as well poison my soup and be done with it.” 

“Why on earth would I do that?” Tiago asks a little bit incredulous, “That would be such a waste of food!”

James grins and leans back in his chair. “You know, I can't believe I'm actually meeting you face-to-face, or,” he pauses considering, “you know, face-to-mask anyway. I would've thought someone of your... repute would have slung me off on a lackey.” 

“Why would you say that?” 

“I can't possibly be very high-priority,” James shrugs, “Surely you have clients with more in their wallets than a fake-ID and trolley-fare.”

“You underestimate your worth.” 

“I'm a field agent.” 

“A naughty one that sneaks behind Mummy's back.” 

James inhales sharply and stares at Tiago with a look of blank confusion. 

“Why do you call her that?”

Tiago inwardly bemoans his lack of self-censorship and plays the dumb-card. 

“She's the boss, no?”

James shrugs easily and lets it fly. “More or less. I don't work with M directly. You're aware I'm quite low-level. Again, which begs the question of why you think I'd be of any use whatsoever.” 

“You'll make double-oh.”

“Not if I'm a goddamned cripple.”

“You'll be happy to learn the bullet went in clean and came out without hitting anything that won't patch up good as new with a little time and exercise.”

James looks at him thoughtfully. “Which you've signed on to provide?” 

“If you're amenable.”

“I don't have many options, do I?” 

“Is my company really so loathsome?” 

“Horrid.” 

Tiago chuckles happily and pushes James cup back toward him. “Finish your supper or no dessert.”

“Dear God,” the agent moans, eyeing the dreadful concoction with a look of despair, “Dare I ask what's for dessert?”

“A second cup, of course,” Tiago replies with a chipper grin. 

\--

“Henrickson?” James asks later when they begin to forget who's turn it is on their 3rd lazy round of chess.

“Check,” Tiago replies uncertainly, “-ish.” 

James studies the board and throws his hand up, “I give up.” 

“He's out. I've got a good lead on his source. You can't give up. It's your turn.” 

“You've got me in about 3 turns no matter what move I make,” James argues, “When I'm back on the job you want me to take out Minsk right?”

“Well preferably not the whole city, might be a teensy bit excessive. Fine. Have it your way. Check-mate.”

“I'm sick of chess,” James huffs, knocking down his Queen to save Tiago the trouble. 

“Aw, don't be a poor sport.” 

“I'm not feeling very 'sporting' at the moment.” 

“Are you bored?” Tiago asks neutrally. 

James sniffs. “Don't you have better things to do with your time than entertain me?”

“Actually, I've taken leave. I'm on vacation,” Tiago informs, stirring his tea, “What would you like to do?”

“What do you do in your spare time?” 

“I don't let myself have too much spare time. Not exactly conducive to my health, you know,” Tiago responds matter-of-fact, “But when inspiration hits I'll play with a bit of code, dabble in some politics... I like Sartre. Tolstoy. Good scotch. A bit of Bach, a little Tony Bennett. I used to play some rugby when I was a boy.”

“Took one too many hits to the head?”

“Obviously,” Tiago laughs. 

“Is that it?”

“Well, I have a bit of a thing for collecting.” 

“Antiques?” James asks, nodding at the samovar on the end table.

“Among other things. If it's valuable, if it's rare, if it catches my eye.”

He lets the explanation settle. 

“Well, everyone needs a hobby,” James states somewhat uncomfortably. 

“What do you like to do?” Tiago asks after a stretch of silence. The agent looks up at the ceiling and ponders this before uncrossing his arms and leaning back into the plush cushion of his chair. 

“Cards. Sailing. Racing...” James lists off, “Women.”

“Any in particular?” 

“Are you jealous?”

Tiago intently tries to conceal a momentary flare of anxiety and turns away the side of his face that the mask doesn't cover, but to his misfortune he suspects his tell lies in his tone. 

“Ever so.” 

James narrows his eyes and smirks. “Not in a while.” 

“Why?”

“No time, less interest.” 

“Is that so?” Tiago asks feigning disinterest. He picks up his mug and takes a slow sip. 

“Are you in love with me?” 

Tiago chokes on his tea. 

“Well done,” he sputters, “Now you've gone and made me make a mess of my shirt.” Tiago snags a wad of tissues and dabs at the wet stains on his chest. 

James is shaking with laughter. “That,” he exclaims, wiping a tear from his eye, “Was a far better reaction than I'd hoped for.” 

“Ah, so what reaction were you hoping for?” Tiago leers, dropping the wad of napkins down on the table by his saucer. 

“I can't honestly say,” James admits still chuckling softly. 

“Well, you've found me out, now it's into the dungeons with your sorry carcass.”

“You'd miss me.” 

Tiago cocks his head and studies the man across from him with a new-found respect. “So terribly,” he confesses with a careless shrug. 

“It's me, isn't it?” James asks, suddenly serious. 

“Explain,” Tiago prompts, intrigued and terrified in equal measure. 

“You want me to work for you.” 

Something like relief floods through him and he relaxes back into his chair across from the agent. 

“Undeniably.” 

James looks down at his hands and wipes them on his knees once before folding them in his lap. “What makes you think I'd be agreeable?” 

“I've done you a favour. Gratis,” Tiago points out, “Quid pro quo, Mr. Bond.” 

The agent chews on this. 

“What sort of length of time are we talking about here?” 

“Are you worried Mummy will miss you?” 

“Naturally. I'm indispensable.”

“Brass tacks sort of man, aren't you?” Tiago smiles, guarded, channeling 'Raoul Silva' for an appropriate response. He selects one that fits: “We can iron out the details later. You've got a bit of a bum leg for the moment and I'm not the type to put down those sort of stakes at the stables, you know?” 

He's not inclined to place a number on the days he plans to keep James for, after all. 

“Fair enough,” the agent concedes.

"Cards?"

"Only if you can play."

"I assure you," Tiago promises, "I can."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check the tags for warnings, i guess. added some new ones.

Several days stretch in a similar fashion and James now dines with him on a timely schedule Tiago has invented to ensure his patient's smooth recovery. 

He delights in cooking for James and he's good at it. 

Long having sustained himself on a bland variety of nutritional supplements between the requisite intervals of post-surgery parenteral IV, food has been a flavorless, resented necessity, but now that he has someone to appreciate the effort, Tiago is surprised to find his palate reawakened for the subtle nuances in a well-made meal and James, it turns out, has an eager appetite.

The satisfaction of providing James with pleasure in even this simple, unimposing capacity becomes an undeniable addiction. Under his watchful, but never overly-obvious observation, his patient's health is restored in self-evident increments: his washed-out complexion regains it's warmth and the gaunt, sickly sallowness softens with vitality. 

With nourishing food and the deep, saturating sleep induced by narcotics and extended by natural exhaustion, James is steadily regaining a semblance of his former strength which is beginning to allow him a flex of freedom Tiago both celebrates and mourns. 

With independence will come an inevitable desire for liberation James does not yet realize Tiago has designs to delay, but Tiago has always been resourceful and creative and James is in his debt. Though trust is an allowance a well-trained agent does not afford, he is unwaveringly loyal, and this is a fault a selfish man can readily exploit. 

In the mean time, the kitchen has evolved into a surprisingly convenient laboratory for Tiago to conduct his magnum-opus: In close-quarter cohabitation, they've become accustomed to adjusting themselves around each others' habits and peculiarities. By his very nature, James is polite without actually being polite but he means no offense at least most of the time and is always restlessly curious. He hides it well with a stealthy subtlety that a less-observant man would easily miss. Quietly, he pokes at the boundaries testing for the cracks which Tiago, a step ahead, is always prepared to reinforce his shields against.

“This place,” James asks, sweeping a hand figuratively around the room, “Sort of doubles as your home as well as a home-base, but your network expands across the globe?”

He hears what he's asking and what he's not asking. 

“Naturally, I have hubs in many places, and I'm always expanding,” Tiago explains as vaguely as possible. He wants him to ask not because he wants to tell him at this point but because he's curious to test the limits of James' daring, though he doubts he'll be bold enough to try.

Yet again James surprises him.

“But you,” he muses, wonderingly, “You're stationary, aren't you?” 

Tiago studies the agent before responding, anticipating the direction a truthful answer to this question will lead to.

“I have a team of surgeons who specialize in advanced facial reconstruction and they are located here, so here I stay.” 

James swallows but he's calm; impenetrably stoic.

“I've been to war.”

As if this gentle nudge reminding Tiago of the agent's iron-constitution will encourage Tiago to somehow strip himself away for the man, he shakes his head.

“You must think I give you very little credit.” 

“Then it's for your own peace of mind,” James says pitilessly. 

Tiago's laugh is dark. “You think my vanity keeps me from lifting my mask?”

“Does it?” James asks openly curious. 

“It's a shield designed to protect the skin-grafts from environmental contaminates.”

James sits on this. Tiago knows he's biting back the burning question of how this happened, of why he won't tell him. 

He knows the man is stumped. He senses his frustration. Sometimes he catches James out of the corner of his eye with a puzzled, annoyed expression he knows he is the cause of; the agent has little else to do with his time other than dissect Tiago yet has little clue that this is his subject's modus-operandi: feed him the barest scraps, keep him hooked. 

In spite of a few shared meals and a game or two, James had initially been somewhat withdrawn and Tiago, resolved to be patient, leniently allowed the man his space for those first few days. 

“Slinking back off to the cave?” he asks with a roll of his eyes. He's not actually exasperated but he'd like to encourage James to feel a little ungracious. 

“Isn't that what you do?” James' retort is flippant; bitter, “Isn't that what this whole place is?” 

James is caustic when he's in a foul mood and Tiago knows better than to antagonize him. 

He remembers a particularly surly James over the radio months back:

“I refuse to work with her,” he stated in no uncertain terms. 

“She played you, so what,” Tiago drawled ambivalent, “You can't afford to discriminate. She's a good marksman and you lost the last one I sent you in Kiev.” 

“She's a two-faced harpy and I don't trust her far enough to throw her.”

“Good thing you won't be throwing her then,” Tiago sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “You know James, I don't just grow employees on trees.” 

“You know I can hire someone else at any time, just say the word.”

“I'm going to pretend you didn't just threaten to fire the one person who's currently keeping you from falling thirty stories to your death, but only because I'd miss these lovely little chats.” 

“I can't work like this.”

“Take it up with your employer.”

Caught between a rock and hard place, James doesn't immediately reply. 

And then he does: “You're hardly the best in town.” 

“Drop me and I'll drop you.” Tiago laughs at how little James knows of the true extent of his network, “You know what I think, my dear? I think your professional pride is less at stake than your ego. I think you're just upset because she caught you trying to lift her skirt and wouldn't let you take a peek.”

Tiago hears the click of James ending the connection and grins, knowing they'll have a good laugh about it later, but James doesn't call and Tiago doesn't think much of it really, James will have a few drinks and get it out of his system. 

Only he doesn't call again for weeks and weeks and Tiago has no way to get a hold of him, completely cut off from communication until James signals back in and helplessly, Tiago has no idea where the agent is or if he's alive or dead with no way of finding out without hacking into MI6 which he is loathe to do unless a situation is critical and he absolutely must. 

Finally, his wayward client contacts him and Tiago doesn't know whether to have him shot or to send him an impractical truckload of flowers in apology. He's careful after that: Tiago knows just enough about him to apparently hit just the right combination of buttons and James' is not above retribution. 

Because he knows that for whatever reason Tiago cares what happens to him. 

It's not the typical business relationship. 

It hasn't been for some time.

“Did you really like her that much?” 

“She led me to believe she was someone else,” James explains and his tone is soft and honest and it breaks Tiago's heart a little, “That's not the kind of lie I like to forgive.”

“Don't cut me off again.” The plea sounds like a demand when he speaks it. It is angrier than he'd intended and he knows it is far more revealing than it should be. 

For better or worse, Tiago now knows when to back off. 

And really, he's not overly offended or concerned by James' reclusive behavior; the agent often had demonstrated a tendency to become withholding when on unfamiliar ground, it's common among those newer to the field and though he's always been quick with concealing this vulnerability, he clearly felt safe enough around Tiago to leave off the front. 

Which was actually extremely encouraging and in any case, Tiago knew exactly how to lure him out. 

He was very good at fishing: find a good spot, hook the bate, cast the line and wait for the tug. 

Purposefully, Tiago had begun to slowly move bits and pieces of his projects from his office into the common-room, tinkering about with his maps while assembling the complex machinery, half an eye at all times watching James' door with bated breath. At first, James would limp out to gather a few books or borrow the laptop specially designated for his own personal use and with a passing nod in Tiago's direction, hide away again for hours at a time holed up in the privacy of his room. 

Finally, James had begun to emerge from his isolation to join Tiago, lounging in a chair across the room studiously ignoring him, pretending to be thoroughly engrossed in something or other but he was so obvious, Tiago had to stifle his urge to laugh at him outright. Slyly peering up from the pile of components he'd scattered in organized piles across the floor he'd catch James shifting and sighing, idly twisting overgrown strands of messy hair between his thumb and forefinger, chewing the edge of a hangnail, distractedly staring off at the ceiling with utter, undisguised boredom. 

Tiago was unmerciful and at last the agent would cave. It was a game Tiago very deliberately made sure to win every time. 

James interest in what he was working on was artless and obviously inspired by the sort of twitchy discomfort that comes from lengthy stretches of inactivity, but the root of it was inspired by the very human need for human interaction and though the man completely lacked any ability to delineate between integrated peripherals and heatsink mounts, Tiago taught him just enough to instill in James the belief that he could be of use, which was more than enough to keep him invested. 

James inspects the nearly finished product with blatant admiration. 

“Q branch could really use you on their team.”

“Your precious SIS cannot afford to pay a fraction of my salary,” Tiago snorts condescendingly and James shakes his head. 

“God help the man who does your accounting.” 

“God help the man who pays his salary.” 

James laughs and then groans, rubbing a hand along his healing ribs with a pained grimace. 

“God help anyone who ever tries to audit you.” 

“You can't tax a dead man.” 

This, like many other seemingly unremarkable things he says inevitably finds James focused solemnly on his mask. 

“If I work for you-” 

“When you work for me,” Tiago corrects with an air of confidence James bristles at.

“I'm not going to agree to do anything that will be a conflict of interest with MI6.”

“I respect you too much to ask that of you. Of course someday you might change your mind.” 

James is quiet and Tiago knows he's adding this slip of information to the rest of the cache. It's only a matter of time before he truly starts asking the right questions. 

Tiago brushes a hand over a crease in the agent's shirt sleeve. 

“There are certain details I'll share with you if I think it's relevant. If it will help you, James. I will never put you needlessly at risk. Trust me when I say that is more than your M will ever be able to promise you.”

“Risk is part of the job description,” James argues, expressionlessly. 

At times, Tiago loses track of where he is. There is a part of his mind that was left behind somewhere in the deep recesses of a dark holding cell that he will never truly escape. 

“You are not expendable,” he speaks aloud but he doesn't know if he's talking to himself or someone else, “You can't be replaced and you won't be left to rot.” 

There is a stretch of silence and he opens his eyes to find James looking at him with something akin to pity and fascination. 

'Is that what happened to you?' he doesn't ask, but Tiago reads it in James expression.

It's enough for him to know this much. 

“I think it's just near supper,” Tiago announces, “Have you ever made a snapper marinade?” 

James seamlessly segues into his life in such a way that the two begun to work in tandem; a well-oiled machine. Naturally this carries its way into the kitchen and the very act of cooking their meals together is an act of intimacy. 

To Tiago, the activity is familiar and nostalgic, and in this environment he moves in a zen, intuitive auto-pilot of chopping and stirring. For lack of anything better to occupy his time, James often watches, leaning a hip against the marble counter or sneaking a taste to measure his progress. At other times, Tiago employs him to assist and the agent will perch on a stool with a paring knife and dice whatever Tiago passes his way. 

Together they work in a sort of companionable silence immersed in the warmth of rising steam and the wafting, comforting smells of spices and herbs Tiago has brought fresh from under the growing lamps.

More days pass and then they've been together just over a week; they move around each other, gliding along in their work with a sort of elegant, practiced grace. It is careful and it is calculated but Tiago grooms James into a compliant, available companionship and found within this easy domesticity is the old James Tiago had grown to adore across the wires. 

They talk more openly though nothing of much significance. 

When they touch it is accidental and ignored but Tiago's heart stutters in his chest and he is in heaven. James-- so close, so near; it is an answered prayer, but now it's more imperative than ever that he keeps James distracted-- keeps him dumb. 

The man is more clever than he'd given him credit for, and at times, when the pain ebbs and James decreases his dose of brain-fogging narcotics, he surprises Tiago with a whiplash wit that belies a deeper, sharper insight than Tiago is strictly comfortable or prepared to engage.

The cajoling way James needles him into giving him his own way and then pointing it out after the fact is more than enough to set him on edge. 

Tiago can't tell how much is the friendly, rude sort of camaraderie adopted from the barracks and how much is keen, close-target intuition. He would be an idiot to hope for James maintaining complete ignorance to his attraction. It would be a disservice to both of them to discredit his intelligence when Tiago never intended to pretend he wasn't attracted to men. He's sure it's come up in conversation and James is self-aware enough to know he's mostly everyone's type.

It's not rocket science. 

If James catches a hint of the edge of his interest, that's harmless, excusable. 

Could even be played to his advantage, but just a mere glance in an unguarded moment and he could be undone if James read him right. Such a slip would be his downfall; he knows James isn't ready and Tiago cannot bear to imagine if all his carefully laid plans are felled by James immediate rejection and demand to be released. 

Hell, now that he's here, he can't fucking fathom what will happen if he's not but Tiago does know how fast he could unravel and he doesn't trust himself enough to let James go willingly. 

Even now, as he watches James, stretched in a languid sprawl across the sofa, fast asleep and far too trusting, the tender warmth he regards him with twists to something razor-edged and malignant, and too easily he can see James bound and bloody, something ruined, something jagged. 

Tiago turns away and cleanses himself of the bitter picture, washing it down with a smoky, burning scotch. 

James stirs and sits up and stares blearily across at him. 

“I'll have what you're having,” he says, rubbing loose the tight tendons in his neck. 

Tiago lays aside the book in his lap without marking the page having long since given up any pretense of concentration when the words had begun to blur meaninglessly, his focus settled on only one fixed point now coming awake across from him. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” James responds, “But I blame you for letting me fall asleep out here.” 

“If I take responsibility, am I obliged to remedy the err?” 

James drags a hand across his eyes rubbing away the sleep. 

“I wouldn't be averse,” he shrugs, eyes fixed on the bottle of Scotch. 

Tiago smiles inscrutably and stands. James watches with a baffled expression as he comes around the back of the couch, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. He cranes around with a wince and slight frown.

“What are you doing?”

“Lean back and take away your hand,” Tiago commands with quiet authority. Taken aback, and too groggy for argument, he complies. At the first touch of Tiago's fingers against the nape of his neck, James perceptibly stiffens before melting into his touch as Tiago begins the process of massaging away the knots of tense muscle. 

“Is this in lieu of a drink or do I get one of those too?”

“Entitled, aren't you?” Tiago tisks with a warm smile James can't see with his head tilted forward, chin lolling against his chest. He finds a particularly stubborn spot and rolls deeply into it with his knuckles, kneading it loose which results in an unanticipated, audible moan from James that's so ridiculously indecent, his ears grow hot immediately with the slip. 

Tiago chuckles softly, and unfurls his hands, to allow his fingers to slip just around the front of the agent's neck. 

“Christ, where did you learn to do that?”

“Do what?” Tiago teases, gently grazing his throat. James' adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows and Tiago savors the chafing rasp of his stubble against the pads of his fingers. 

“I know a masseur in Taiwan who I've emptied a bit too much of my pockets on for a lesser job.” 

“I know many ways to take a man apart with just my hands,” Tiago mentions, drawing a stroke of his thumbs behind his jaw. The agent nearly purrs, and the vibrations shoot right up through Tiago and curl low within his gut. 

“I'd call you a braggart but--” 

“But?” Tiago asks not so innocently, pulling his fingers in a straight line down to the hollow of James' throat before working them up to comb behind his ears. 

“But...” James trails off for a moment, lost in the sensation. “I don't know where I was going with that,” he finishes rather dumbly. 

“Rendered you speechless, have I?” Tiago smiles and removes his hands and James nearly groans with the loss. 

He clears his throat awkwardly and blinks his eyes. “Doesn't this overstep some boundaries?”

“Mixing work and pleasure?” Tiago asks strolling back around the other side into James line of vision. He feels the agent staring at him as he busies himself straightening up a stack of books and collects a few abandoned cups and glasses, grabbing the neck of the bottle of Scotch on his way back to the counter, and all along the way feels James eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. 

He turns back around with a devilish grin and winks, “I won't tell, if you don't.”

James flushes deeply, obviously flustered and shifts uncomfortably, closing himself off. 

“I don't sleep with men.” he states bluntly. 

Tiago places the dishware on the counter and turns back around with a lazy smirk. 

“Don't or won't?” 

James furrows his brow with a troubled expression that seems crossed somewhere between perplexed and amused. 

“You know, I never have been entirely able to tell when you're being serious or simply taking the piss, but I find even when we're here together in person I suffer the same problem.”

“Are you feeling better?” Tiago asks with an easy, safe smile. James glances away, finding something on the wall he decides is more interesting to look at. His ears are still red. 

“To some degree.”

Tiago pulls out two fresh glasses and pours a finger of scotch into each. He then removes a slim package from his pocket and pushes out two pills from the tin wrapper. He drops both into a small bowl and crushes them into a fine powder before stirring it into James' glass. 

“I find it takes some getting used to,” he warns, “But I happen to prefer a smoky liquor.”

“Thank you,” James says gratefully taking the drink and lifting it to his nose. 

He watches the agent drink and in turn, politely takes a sip of his own before settling back into his chair.

“This is good.”

“Special collection.”

“Do you have anything that's not 'special collection'?” James ask with a slow smirk. 

“I have discerning tastes.” 

The agent closes his eyes and sighs. 

“I've ordered you a few sets of clothes, they should arrive in the morning,” Tiago informs, “You should have at least a dozen shirts and trousers.” 

James scoffs, “A few sets? That's a small wardrobe. How long do you expect me to stay here?” 

“You didn't think this was a one night stand did you?”

“I've been here a week already, surely you don't intend for me to stay for the entire duration of my employment with you?”

“It wouldn't be an imposition,” Tiago shrugs, “It wouldn't be convenient for you to travel back and forth every day.”

Now James is alert. Now he's concerned. 

“I'll be working here?”

“Did you think I was going to send you out for field work?” Tiago asks, setting aside his empty glass. 

James chews his bottom lip with a tired nervousness. 

“I don't suppose that would work,” he admits wiping his hands on his knees, “Not now anyway. What will you have me do?”

“I could use an assistant. There's a lot of work to do,” Tiago explains, “I've several clients stacked into the same time slot that I'll be working with eventually.” 

“Eventually,” James repeats, mulling over the word with a distracted frown. 

“Yes, eventually,” Tiago confirms, observing the agent with a cool smile. Already, the man's eyelids are sinking heavily and the way he's spacing off into nothing tells of the fast effects of the rohypnol he'd discreetly slipped into James' drink. 

“I'm really tired all of the sudden,” James slurs through a yawn, “I don't think I slept very well on this sofa.”

“Then perhaps we both ought to turn in,” Tiago suggests. 

James doesn't disagree and doesn't argue when Tiago helps him out of his seat. He sways, dizzy and leans readily against Tiago, draping an arm clumsily around his waist. 

Tiago drinks in the warmth presses close along the side of his body and leans his face into the top of James' head, resting lazily upon his shoulder. He stands there for a moment, just holding him and breathes against James' hair. 

The agent sags against him, barely supporting his own weight and Tiago puts him to bed.

He nuzzles his face once into the crook of his neck stifling a moan before pulling the blanket up and tucking him in. Tiago lowers himself by the side of his bed, kneeling beside James as he gently snores and laces the agent's slack fingers with his own. 

“No one will take you from me,” he promises him softly. 

When James awakes late the next morning, his head throbs painfully and his mouth is incredibly dry but beside his bed is a new glass of fresh cold water and a bottle of Vicodin.


	8. Chapter 8

For several consecutive days this routine continues, and James becomes accustomed to waking in a confused daze with a crowning headache, an unidentifiable, alien, lingering sensation of loneliness and the feeling as if blocks of time are missing from his memory. The nights before seem illusory and return only in flickers that bend his reality with warping, vivid dreams. 

Implausibly, Tiago is beside him, touching, but just barely as if James were some kind of figment, precious and imagined. He can almost feel the curl of his fingers against his own, the ghosting brush of adoring lips against his forehead and closed eyelids, tracing the edge of his jaw and skimming the line of his lips whispering faint secrets and impossible promises against his skin. He can almost feel a phantom trail that tingles alive at the memory and God, but it feels real. 

Exploring fingers stroke a path along his chest to graze across his nipples relentlessly teasing the nubs until they harden against his ministrations. The tickling turns to licking until over-sensitized and shaking apart, James tries to push him off. 

In retaliation, Tiago finds his wrists and pins his arms to the bed at his sides in a hold that could be easily shaken off, but it's firm enough that James gets the point and ceases his resistance. 

An alarm bell sounds in the back of his mind that this isn't right, that this isn't a dream, he remembers thinking this, but the way Tiago moves against him stirs him alive and he can't remember the last time he'd wanted anything with such an aching, powerful need. He can't remember the last time anyone's touch had made him feel this cherished or desired and he feels stripped bare with a naked, unnameable emotion. 

“James, my James,” Tiago groans in a possessive, circular stream, over and over, his hot breath gusting against the shell of his ear. “Say that you are mine, say it, James.” 

James can't, won't, it's too embarrassing, it's too much. 

Tiago pulls away and balances over James, his face a hairsbreadth away. 

“Say it.” The command is direct with a suspended threat that darkens the tone and James resolve begins to fray at the edges. 

In the dim light from the hall, an eery cast glows off Tiago's mask and his eyes gleam out at him, fathomless and penetrating. 

James swallows thickly and in a shaky, barely audible whisper he admits that he is. Tiago claims his mouth in a smothering kiss, petting his hair. 

“You are so good, so good,” Tiago praises, lapping at the hollow of his throat. James sighs a breathy moan arching into the touch before his mouth is recaptured by a wet, velvety tongue that tastes mostly of his own salty sweat. 

“Mine,” Tiago repeats once more against his lips. His hand travels down James' sternum and smoothes over his abdomen, thumb dipping inward to swirl around the indent of his navel. 

“You are beautiful, meu querido,” Tiago tells him, “Exquisite,” and James writhes against the sheets, overwhelmed with unfettered desperation until at last Tiago's fingers skip along the waistband of his tented shorts. 

A hot palm slips over the bulge to rub at a damp patch of fabric stretched over the head of James' cock before cupping him with a gentle squeeze, kissing James breathless. 

James' excitement twitches against his hand and Tiago sighs into his mouth as James strains with impatience, humping up into his grasp. “So eager,” Tiago tuts as he releases him. The agent groans his disappointment and Tiago grins, tugging at his boxers. 

Tossing them aside, Tiago kneels between James' legs and gazes down at him with dark, covetous desire and a strange curl of a smile. In the dim light he looks almost like the devil come to collect and James isn't sure he remembers for what he bargained away his soul but nothing matters when Tiago finally wraps him gently in his hand. He bucks up into his grasp with a relieved grunt and watches the man through slitted eyes as Tiago slowly rubs himself through his trousers in tandem. 

The pleasure is all for James, however.

Shuffling further down the bed until his shoulders are braced between the agent's knees, Tiago tightens his fist around the base of James' shaft, fully slipping back his foreskin to reveal the blunted, swollen head. Leaning in, James watches between stuttered breaths as the man greedily feasts, nibbling up along the engorged vein to lap at the glistening bead rolling down from his weeping slit.

Tiago sweeps just inside the indented tip to further collect James' flavor before swirling in broad, flat strokes beneath the tender ridge. He hums around the head, and looks into his eyes with a playful glint before suddenly engulfing him completely, swallowing him down to the hilt. 

James nearly sobs as Tiago rends him boneless and can't help but watch the dark-haired man buried in his crotch like he belong there, worshiping him from root to tip with his talented mouth. 

“Oh fuck,” he gasps as he hits the back of Tiago's throat, the muscles tightening around him. Rendered into artless desperation, a sloppy string of incoherent pleas tumble from his tongue as he reaches out to entangle his fist into Tiago's unruly hair. He thrusts himself deep into the wet heat with ruthless abandon and the man chokes around him but only takes him deeper, speeding up his rhythm. 

When James at last looks down, he sees tears running down to Tiago's chin but his blissed-out, wild hunger is so utterly erotic, James fucks into his face hard and fast until he spills down his throat, coming with a loud shout.

Tiago takes him all, draining him dry until at last James collapses back, boneless and utterly spent. He lays there, as the ceiling spins above him and allows the man to continue to suckle his over-sensitive cock until it's too raw, and James tries to pull himself away but Tiago holds him down firmly by the hips, licking and sucking at his deflating member. James keens, gritting his teeth until at last Tiago releases him and he shuffles out of his grasp; a shaking, dizzy mess.

The last thing he remembers is Tiago quickly unfastening his trousers and stuffing his hand down the front of his pants and the look of sheer ecstasy; eyes rolling up into his head as he brings himself to completion. But this is not for James, this is something private and as strange as it seems James feels like he is trespassing. 

James is hanging onto the last thread of this unlikely dream as Tiago finishes tucking himself back into his pants. He smiles at him softly and satisfied and there is a tinge of something red like blood glistening at the corner of the ruined side of his mouth he licks away and that is the last thing he can remember.

He feels sick. 

Repulsion wars with arousal and he hates his mind for staging this fantasy.

He hates the constant replay that haunts him throughout the day and he hates his natural compulsion to poke around and analyze a part of his identity he'd never before needed to question. He hates how it colors his interaction with Tiago and how it makes his harmless flirting seem like something sinister.

Tiago had always been sort of haplessly brazen and playfully teasing, but it was more like an ingrained trait rather than a conscious, concerted effort with any specific purpose and James didn't want to assume it was personal.

He hoped it wasn't; that would be a complication. 

“James, you haven't eaten are you feeling well?” Tiago asks, and James realizes he's been staring blankly at the man for so long he's lost track of time and his soup has gone cold. Tiago wears his confused concern with an open honesty and though James looks hard for the cracks, he can't find a single one. 

He doesn't know what he hopes to find really. 

James continues to watch Tiago with a paranoid vigilance he knows is undeserved, especially when his observations deliver no results. Tiago's actions raise few flags and rarely cross any line, therefore James concludes there to be absolutely no reason why he should immediately harden in Pavlovian response with so little as the slightest casual touch. 

They are working on Tiago's new receiver and James passes him a screwdriver, their hands brush and James inhales sharply, Tiago either chooses not to notice or is simply distracted by his project. He never acknowledges James' behavior in any way that would signal he's aware of a problem and James fears what would happen if he should. 

He fears Tiago in a way he hasn't feared any other man and he fears to ask himself why.

James doesn't have friends. It's not conducive to his job nor does his job allow for such luxury, but he can't deny that after a fashion, Tiago had become his friend in the a very real way under the guise of a voice on a radio.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks as James lays alone in the dark on the bed of a hotel, nursing a bruised cheek and chain-smoking the last of a pack.

“Nothing overly profound,” he replies sullenly because he doesn't have to moderate the emotion in his tone when they speak at this hour. “Death. Life and death. The usual.”

“Is that usual for you?” Silva asks. 

“From time to time,” James responds his words twisted with bitter sarcasm. There is a sour taste in his mouth and he spits into a cup before taking a long pull from a bottle of terrible whiskey that burns it's way down to eat holes through his gut.

He knows he's being morose, but Silva is used to this sort of thing. 

“What happened?” 

“An agent died on the job today. He was a new recruit.” 

James takes another long pull, downing the rest of the bottle. 

“He made a rookie mistake,” he adds after a moment of silence across the line. “It's not as if it hasn't before and besides, his replacement is already en route.”

He puts out the cigarette mashing it into the piled butts and watches the residual smoke spiral up into the smoky haze overhead. 

“It just made me wonder how long I've got,” James says quietly, “And that I would even humour that thought made me wonder if I'm cut out for this.”

He lights the last cigarette and crumples the empty carton in his hand. 

“The thought that I could die tomorrow doesn't really bother me,” he clarifies, “If I'm gone it changes nothing.”

“What do you want to change?”

“I want to help,” he admits, surprised by his own answer. 

“You are helping, within the capacity you're employed. Does that bring you no peace of mind?” 

“I want to do more.” 

“Then you will,” Silva tells him with that strange prescient, cryptic wisdom James is too drunk to find fault in. 

It makes him sleep easier and this is not a one way service. 

One evening, Silva skips a call and he worries because Silva never skips a call. 

“Where were you last night?” James asks, slightly wincing at his choice of phrasing reminiscent of a stood-up date. 

“I didn't forget, I had another... pressing engagement,” Silva responds and James can hear something off in his tone. 

“If you make something up, you know I'll know,” he promises.

“I had a mishap, it's fine.” 

James waits but Silva divulges nothing further. 

“Are you alright?”

“Something happened that I lost sight of, and a rather delicate project had to be sacrificed. It doesn't concern anyone but myself, James but thank you for your concern.”

Silva's dismissive answer rubs him the wrong way. “You didn't answer my question. Are you alright?” 

The line is silent and James just about end the connection when finally he replies:

“I will be.”

“What can I do?” James offers not actually expecting Silva to ask him for anything but he does. 

“Could you, just for awhile... stay online?”

“Fine.”

“I won't be able to respond, but if you could keep talking to me, about anything at all for at least the next quarter of an hour, I would be in your debt.”

James doesn't ask why and he reads to him from the entertainment section of the news until the line clicks off. 

Working covertly with Silva is risky, he knows, but the advantage is that he rises quickly in rank at the home office, and finally gets the type of missions, pay-raise and cushy side-benefits he'd hoped for when he first signed on. It's not anything glamorous like being a double-oh, but he's bound in that direction. 

The most damning aspect of his relationship with Silva, because that is what it is-- a relationship, is that he no longer cares that they've blurred the line beyond business. What they derive from their connection is symbiotic and beneficial and both neglect to remind each other that at some point it will end in a cash money transfer from an undisclosed location to a secret off-shore account on a distant island and they will go their separate ways. 

It does end, and James walks away with sinking, empty feeling that lingers for months until he's given the perfect job and the perfect excuse to seek him out again. 

“How's are you enjoying the weather?”

“Better than Moscow,” James replies racing down the Audubon in his new Lotus Silva had sneakily replaced for the pitifully less equipped Q-section order. “Thanks for the car, by the way.”

“I spoil you,” Silva laughs. 

“Horribly. You've ruined me,” James accuses as he pulls off onto his exit, “Wait, I've got to switch over, work is calling.” 

After a brief exchange with his actual employers, he connects back over. “Still online?”

“Come, James. You know I wouldn't leave you.” 

“How's the weather by you?” James casually asks. 

“Always fishing aren't you?” 

“I'm a spy, that's what we do,” he retorts. 

“If you've nothing else pressing I'll tell you what I've been working on.”

“It just so happens I'm not too particularly busy,” James replies as he latches onto the tail of his quarry and shoots out the tires. The vehicle spins into the ditch and James revs his powerful engine speeding away, having successfully delayed a volatile transfer. 

“I'm designing a prototype for a program that will allow you to receive a feed below the radar in any building with any level security damper.” 

“Does that mean you'll be able to feed me dirty jokes to share in the office?” 

“Obviously.”

It's funny how little has changed but how much has changed now that he's living with Silva who is actually Tiago of no particular surname, decisive origin or freely-shared back story. His undistorted voice is smooth and deeply accented and the undamaged side of his face is handsome but drawn and James knows his addictions are making him sick in more than just his body. He doesn't know what he can be for Tiago, he doesn't know how to be anything for him but he can't deny that Tiago wants him to be something and James doesn't know if he wants to know what that is. 

What he finds most disturbing is this yearning starvation he feels when Tiago deviates from his habitual demonstrative tendencies and leaves James sitting on the edge of his seat gnawing the skin off the sides of his fingernails in utter frustration. 

He wants Tiago to touch him and he can't figure out why, but he's lost count of how often he's had to manipulate a situation to gain this fix of accidental contact. 

It's humiliating and depressing and James has never been more thankful for the occasional nightcap Tiago allows him to have at the end of the day, but really he'd rather just steal the bottle and hide in some dark corner until he forgets why he needed the bottle and the dark corner in the first place. 

He hates how these too-real dreams have made him second guess his sanity as he checks his thighs and around his groin every morning on the toilet for chafing from abrasive, day-old stubble he knows should not be there and never is because when is Tiago ever careless in these scenarios? When does he ever grip hard enough to bruise or kiss with enough passion to mark? 

There is no evidence of dried saliva on his neck; no flaking remnants of dried ejaculate to stick him to his pants, but he does wake up more exhausted than he goes to sleep, and his muscles ache in all the places he hasn't worked. 

Every morning, the fresh glass of water and pain-killers continue to be placed beside him like an unwritten apology.

Their arrangement is clearly less than wholesome but James can't figure out why and at times, gestures like this nag at him with a warning like some impending threat is close at hand, but whatever the threat, he's half convinced he's manufactured out of restless cabin fever and a cocktail of too many drugs, it's probably manageable-- at least he hopes it is. At an rate, sedated apathy is proving effective and he won't be here forever. 

Perhaps they can even go back to the easy rapport they shared before when they are no longer forced into this unusually codependent cohabitation. 

Tiago raps lightly upon his door, his timing uncanny which the agent would find suspicious if he cared to consider it but out of a deeply ingrained sense of self-preservation, James has begun to allow many concessions. 

Tiago asks if James is decent with a tone of teasing before he enters with or without the agent's consent and James, who has never been modest, finds his hands twitch with the desire to cover himself, as if he has virtue to defend which he knows is absolutely ridiculous considering his host has already seen him fully naked and at his worst. Instead of giving into the impulse he quickly sheds his clothing and re-seats himself on the edge of the bed, shivering lightly in just a pair of loose boxers but not because he's cold. 

“How are you feeling this morning?” Tiago asks, unraveling the bandages around his leg. James doesn't answer immediately and his care-giver stops to look at him, expression carefully blanked. Hyper-aware of Tiago's hand paused in it's task settled flatly against his upper thigh, James tries not to think about how easy it would be for the man to simply slip it up between his legs and feels the slight weight of every digit pressed against his bared flesh. 

A muscle in Tiago's jaw twitches, and James can see beneath his closed mouth his teeth are clenched. Wrestling down a fluttering, nervous desire that turns his mouth to dust, James inhales deeply. “Tolerably,” he replies, ducking away from Tiago's scrutiny. 

His host says nothing, returning to his examination. He deliberately maintains a passive, respectful distance that skirts the edge of clinical disinterest as he assists James with his dressings. His face betrays nothing when he touches his patient, even if this touch lingers perhaps longer than it ought. 

“You're healing well.” 

Beneath this gaze, James feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with his lack of clothing. The pain-killers are beginning to kick in and curb the edge of his finely-honed sense of intuition, but James still can read something that burns too hot just beneath the man's cool surface. The heat passes through Tiago and into James; a strange, fiery current that coils deep in his core and spreads low and tight between his legs. 

James breathes out through his nose and tries to will away his desire before it betrays him but when he summons the courage to look at Tiago he can tell the damage is done. 

His face, though impassive is stained with a high flush and there is a noticeable tremor in his hands as he finishes taping up James' bandage.

“All done. Be out soon for breakfast,” he requests, his voice husky and horribly effected. He turns around quickly stripping off the latex gloves and tosses them into the bin on a speedy retreat to the exit. 

James dresses himself slowly, shame and confusion warring for dominance, neither emotions expected nor familiar. 

–

“I'm not attracted to you,” James announces, breaking the tense silence. 

Tiago looks up at him from behind his laptop, with a flash of something that looks like guilt that is quickly replaced by surprise.

James stores away the initial reaction to examine later. 

“You're not?” 

James sucks in a steadying breath and locks Tiago down with a pointed, firm look. 

“What happened this morning was not because of you.”

“It wasn't,” Tiago agrees devoid of expression.

“It's been awhile,” James admits, a ready-made excuse that's not even a lie. Tiago accepts the explanation with an easy shrug. 

“A man has needs.”

“I haven't been feeling much like myself lately.” 

“That's understandable.”

“Perhaps,” James muses noncommittally.

Tiago crosses his legs and leans back in his chair. 

“I would suggest a mutually beneficial arrangement, but I doubt you'd be so inclined.” 

“I'm not attracted to you,” James reminds him tersely and Tiago sets aside his laptop with a wry grin. 

“If you keep reminding me I'm going to develop a complex. You might be interested to know that I did have something else in mind only it's not exactly orthodox and know how you can get... sort of a bit of an old stick-in-the-mud.” 

James sits forward, intrigued, “Pretend I'm game. What do you suggest?” 

Tiago's grin stretches across his face and leans forward. 

“Pornography and a strong wrist.” 

James groans and pulls an exasperated hand down his face as Tiago settles back in his chair laughing at him.

“Really James, it's far too easy.” 

–

He plays around with the guilt in Tiago's expression from earlier and wonders what his host could feel guilt for. 

It finally occurs to him when he pays attention. Tiago's back is always turned from him when he makes him their drinks in the evenings. James never remembers much past finishing the nightcap. It's so simple he's appalled by his own foolishness. 

Tiago, as per usual, brings him his glass and James decides to test his hypothesis. 

“Switch with me.”

When Tiago's eyes narrow, James sucks in a breath and holds his ground. 

“Why?”

“Why not?” He poses with a little shrug reaching for Tiago's glass which he passes to him with an exasperated frown before seating himself. 

“Cheers,” James toasts, sipping his drink and watching with bemused interest as his companion raises the glass to his lips but doesn't partake. Tiago sighs and sets down the glass with a heavy clink onto the side table. 

He folds his hands in his lap and looks at James levelly awaiting his verdict.

“What are you drugging me with?” 

“A low dose of Rohypnol and Sildenafil,” Tiago answers without a trace of remorse. 

James studies him carefully, maintaining his cool. 

“To what purpose?”

“Both are used effectively to reduce anxiety and induce extended sleep, which have aided your recovery.”

“You're saying you've been slipping me roofies and Viagra. You chose those two, very specific drugs, and you didn't feel it necessary to inform me?” James asks with a dangerous calm. 

Tiago shrugs, “It may seem like it, but I don't exactly run a pharmacy. It's what I had in supply and I assumed you'd object. I made a decision.” 

“You made the wrong one.”

“Have I?”

“Trust,” James says. He leaves the word hanging in the air between them and for the first time he sees a crack in Tiago's carefully constructed surface.

“Not so easily given but easily lost, James?” Tiago sighs, “Everything I do for you is with your best interest in mind.”

“You deliberately lied to me and I have no way of knowing exactly why, but I don't pretend to believe that you thought this was in my best interest. Either that, or your sense of morality is seriously warped.” James argues, “For days I've wondered if I was going insane.”

“I apologize for any distress you've suffered, I was unaware you'd have any negative side-effects. You should have told me sooner.”

“At least I know. At least I know,” James whispers, dropping his head into his hands with weary resignation. 

When he looks up again, Tiago is staring at him stiffly. “What do you mean,” he asks slowly and James shakes his head.

“It doesn't matter.” 

Standing, he takes his crutch and limps back to his room. 

Tiago stares at the closed door with his heart sinking like a lead weight in his chest and gets up to fetch his syringe.


	9. Chapter 9

Though exhaustion stretches James thin, sleep remains a wayward friend straying mockingly just out of reach. 

He tosses and turns and the bed springs complain against his inexorable agitation creaking beneath his restless, shifting weight but he can't find the right position and his throat is on fire, burning with sour bile every time he swallows back the Vicodin he can feel eating holes through the lining of his gut. 

When at last he cracks open his eyes, he finds himself submerged in a windowless, inky black that forgets it's spatial permanence; the walls breathe and contract and a subdermal, spidering claustrophobia creeps it's way inside the marrow of James' bones. 

He is Jonah trapped inside the belly of the whale.

Switching on a lamp, light floods the room dispelling the illusion and James pulls himself out of bed stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt to exchange it for a fresh one found neatly folded atop a pile of his newly ordered clothing. 

Perched on the edge of his bed, his thoughts meander backward, replaying his earlier conversation with Tiago and he knows something about the their situation is less than wholesome but other than the most obvious and recent reason, he can't quite put his finger on why he's so shaken. 

The only consolation is that now he thinks he understands a thing or two about his uncharacteristic behavioral changes and disordered sleeping. 

It doesn't take any great leaps to interpret the rest: Tiago's sole company in this isolated environment combined with the recent ambiguity of their relationship, enhanced by a small fleet of mind-altering chemicals sailing directly into the core of a single, long-sublimated inclination is the reason for the undeniably erotic slew of dreams which have cultivated a burgeoning, unwelcome attraction to his unusual host. 

He's terrified. But he's also furious and only a small part is due to Tiago's lie. James likes to think he might have lived the rest of his life in blissful ignorance if the man hadn't unwittingly dragged this out of the depths of his subconscious in his misguided attempt to help. 

At least he hopes this is all there is to it. Considering any alternative is profoundly disturbing. 

Unintentionally, and more in part to a long-ingrained trait trained into him by the service, James finds his eyes skirting up to the darkest corner of the room by the vent where he suspects is a concealed CCTV monitoring his activity. 

There is no other way Tiago could so easily anticipate his waking schedule to so timely deliver that knock on his door inviting him to breakfast. 

Up until his recent lucidity, James hadn't considered it a bothersome idea, but now he can't help but imagine Tiago sitting in some private little nook surrounded by his screens watching him spill into his sheets. He can never remember doing so, but waking up in his own slick has been a habitual problem for days. The thought excites as much as it upsets and James again wonders just why Tiago thought to pair Rohypnol with Viagra.

At any rate, sleep is elusive and he needs to escape this confining little room where all he can see anywhere he looks is vivid replay of dreams where Tiago is sucking him down, begging James to fuck his mouth.

He shivers in self-disgust and pulls himself from his bed. 

Supported between the wall and his crutch, James hobbles out into the common area with his borrowed laptop clutched awkwardly beneath his arm seeking refuge in the sofa only to discover it already occupied by the last person he wanted to see, stretched along the cushions in a loose sprawl. 

On closer inspection, Tiago appears still as a corpse, one arm folded across his chest and the other slung off the side, sleeve rolled above his elbow revealing once tanned, pale flesh heavily mottled by scarring.

On the table is an empty, unstoppered, overturned vial beside a used syringe; the plunger flush with the hub. 

For a moment, James' breath catches as his mind races frantically through cursory procedural training on how to administer CPR and nearly misses the gentle rise and fall of Tiago's chest before breaking out into a cold-sweat of panic. James has never wondered before how he might escape if he should find his captor-cum-self-designated care-giver unexpectedly absent. 

Or in this case, dead. 

He sighs with relief when he passes a hand over the man's lips, feeling a warm gust of breath and is further reassured once he presses two fingers against Tiago's wrist. From what James can detect, his pulse is neither sluggish nor steady, and for a moment he wonders if the man is awake but the exposed part of Tiago's face shows no signs of stirring consciousness. He momentarily considers that the man could be faking to avoid confrontation but the drugs on the table dispel this theory.

In sleep, Tiago is softer and inspires something kind in James that the agent finds he suddenly resents when he remembers why he should still be angry. Then, struck by an instense, spiteful desire to strip him away of his jealously guarded secrets, James forgets why he shouldn't do what he's about to do.

He forgets Tiago's unsparing generosity when he reaches forward. He forgets how many time the man had enabled his professional advancement as he gently feels his way along the edge of the mask. He forgets how often he's pulled him from the depths of hell and delivered him back to the surface intact and on two feet when his fingers stumble upon the latch. 

He forgets how in his darkest moments Tiago has so easily provided him reliable friendship when he finds the spring but just before releasing it, he chances a glance at Tiago's face only to find the man's eyes fastened upon him, glittering dangerously. 

James gasps and draws back, but Tiago is faster and springs forward, seizing his wrist in a bruising, immobilizing grip. 

They stare at each other for a long, tense moment before Tiago tugs James down to sit in the place he'd been laying only minutes before.

“Stay,” he commands. James obeys. Rising from the sofa Tiago sweeps a hand down the front of his shirt. 

“I have a high tolerance,” he shrugs by way of explanation with a nod to the needle on the table and a twist of a smirk. “But I'll give you props for the attempt.”

Collecting a bottle of brandy and carrying over two snifters, Tiago settles back down beside the agent companionably close and pours them both a full glass. James tries not to shift away when Tiago wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“So, brave James, what have you to say for yourself?” 

James frowns down into his glass of amber liquid with a tired, resignation before downing a good portion in one gulp and from the corner of his eye, observes Tiago's trained gaze on his throat as he swallows it down. 

The taste is bitter in his mouth. 

“Momentary lapse in judgment,” James offers, refilling his glass. 

Tiago raises an eyebrow and chuckles darkly, “Astute summation.” 

The agent shivers as cool fingertips sweep a path up the length of the back of his neck. 

“I wonder what you hoped to gain.”

“Answers,” James retorts, his tone cutting like the edge of blade as he brings his gaze level with Tiago's. 

“Ah, you want to see the monster that hides behind the mask, but you don't have to remove the mask to see the monster,” Tiago warns, “Haven't you any sense of self-preservation?” 

James is too tired to feel threatened. 

“As fond as I am of you, I feel compelled to remind you that I have my limits.” 

Tiago sips his drink before replacing it on the table. 

“So, my dear, what should we do about this, hmm?” He asks, trailing his hand down to smooth a wrinkle in the agent's collar. “Because I think we may have a little problem.”

James finds himself grinding his teeth as Tiago's hand brushes soothingly against the nape of his neck before pinching into a nerve. It hurts but James doesn't flinch. However, his brittle attempt at impassivity is an easy tell and Tiago's eyes spark like steel against flint. 

“How will I be able to trust you, James?” 

The agent's mouth tightens into a thin line as Tiago's fingers resume mapping out his vertebrate with a deeply unsettling, deliberate knowledge he shouldn't have.

“That's an ironic question,” he bites out, riposte varnished with an acid coating he knows will scald. James feels the man's fingers halt upon his neck and shivers in spite of his resolve. 

“Then I suppose we've come to an impasse.”

There is long moment of immolating silence before James decides to go for broke. 

“Coward.” 

Tiago's smile remains placid but his eyes burn cold and James has to bite his tongue to keep from crying out as a sharp thumb cruelly drives it's way beneath a particularly sensitive node between his shoulder and spine. 

“That wasn't very polite,” Tiago scolds. 

James' hands clench into fists as he struggles to remain calm and he can feel a muscle in his jaw twitch with the effort.

“It's also not very polite to lie,” he quietly reminds and then his host relents. 

Nimble fingers apologetically knead into the damage they'd inflicted at the base of his neck, and James sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying it between his teeth as he tries to keep from moaning his relief.

After a long stretch, James relaxes by increments into Tiago's transporting touch and when finally he feels him draw away the agent almost whines at the loss. With a weary sigh, Tiago clasps his hands in his lap and looks down at them some raw emotion he neatly seals off before returning James' hesitant, curious gaze. 

“I'd like you to forgive me, James,” he admits with a tired honesty that stings somewhere inside the agent's chest. “I'd like to think that we can still be friends.”

James glances away, rubbing the stubble on his chin before his eyes flit back up to Tiago's. “Is that what we are?”

“Haven't we been?” Tiago asks guardedly. 

“What would you say if I told you I don't know?” James poses rhetorically. His host frowns and the agent clears his throat before clarifying, “I was of the assumption that friendship was reliant less on business transaction and monetary exchange and based more on mutual respect.”

Tiago huffs irritably and lifts his glass to his lips, shaking his head.

“If you'd like, I'll show you my books.”

“Why would I want to see your books?” 

The dark-haired man smiles mildly at James' obvious confusion. “I take more of a loss on you than I could ever recoup taking any one of your jobs.” 

The agent gapes at him disbelieving. “You don't exactly work cheap.”

“With that attitude I clearly can see you'd find my normal fee staggering,” Tiago states, grinning, “Everything you pay me is funneled back into your job expenses and what's left I deposit back to you without pocketing a cent. Have you never wondered at the bumps in your IRA?” 

His host drags a hand through his unkept locks gazing out at him with an affectionate amusement. 

“I don't work pro bono for just anyone.”

Stunned into silence, James swallows thickly. There is too much that this reveals about the man's motives than he can justifiably accept. 

“I doubt that you can call what we've found traditional,” Tiago explains, rising from his chair. “but then, I've always considered us an outlier to the norm.”

James can feel his ears grow hot and ducks away from his host's penetrating gaze.

“Respect is earned,” Tiago admits, “So is trust, but you can trust that I care about you, my dear, and I want to see you well. I want to help you if you'd let me. Now if you'd excuse me, I think it's time to say goodnight.”

“Mm,” James agrees distractedly, “Night.”

Tiago smiles and pats the agent's shoulder before retiring to his room and for a long while James remains frozen upon the sofa, his laptop neglected beside him. At some point he knows he finds an hour of sleep, but it doesn't do much good. 

\--

In the days forward they carry on in much the same routine with the addition of short sessions of physical therapy in which Tiago assists James upon a mat with stretching exercises and little personal contact that isn't strictly necessary. 

Finally, Tiago calls off the sessions as the agent grows progressively clumsier and less cognizant of his surroundings. James is fragile with exhaustion but his host refuses to call him out on it, though at times, he catches him watching him with a frustrated disappointment.

James denies himself the obvious solution and carries on but just barely. 

Days begin to blur together and he doesn't dream. 

Most of his time he lays awake listening to the sound of his heart thumping too loudly in his ears and counts the intervals when it flips; startled with every intermittent, audible clink of the ventilation system. The influx of dusty warmth circulates the stale, cloying air predictably every half-hour and seals him under a stiff, tight layer of dried sweat. James hobbles to the bathroom to sponge himself down at least four times a night and no longer bothers to shed every last article of clothing as he no longer wears any to begin with. 

Sometimes James sprawls across his sheets and plays with his flaccid cock, slipping back and forth the loose skin in a sort of mindless daze that isn't meant to satisfy any keenly felt desire, but is something to do to pass the time.

He forgets about the possible but very likely camera.

He barely keeps down the Vicodin until he no longer can at all. 

Bolting out of bed, James collapses to the floor and spews the contents of his stomach into the nearby bin. He looks down at the half digested pills swimming in yellow liquid and rest his forehead against the metal rim. 

Crawling to the bathroom, James washes his face and rinses the sour taste from his mouth. He swallows down two more pills and shortly after those arrive in the same location as the last. 

James soaks through his bedding wallowing in misery without any sort of buffer for his pain, he aches and cramps and knows he won't be able to keep any food down tomorrow with his stomach tied in such terrible knots. 

The clock at his bedside informs him that it's nearly daybreak and though there is no window to confirm the rising sun, James feels it nonetheless. He rolls onto his belly and smothers quaking sobs into his pillow and knows it's not real when he hears light footsteps approach his bed and a soft hand stroke between his shoulder blades. 

–

“Have you ever mainlined heroin?” Tiago asks pouring himself a glass of Scotch. James doesn't get a drink but he doesn't really bother to ask for one. 

“No,” he replies, “At least nothing recreationally.”

“How much are you sleeping?” 

James shrugs. He doesn't know. He supposes he drops off here and there. 

Tiago's face is a blurry frown of concentration as he fills a needle. 

“It's not much different than morphine but you'll feel the rush in your head much faster.”

Tiago kneels on the floor at his feet and rolls up Jame's sleeve. He pushes the bunching fabric of the sweater up to his bicep and wraps a band around his arm, tightening it before pushing into the crook of the agent's elbow upon a protruding vein. The needle slips in like butter, and then a warmth cascades across his limbs filtering down into the tips of his fingers and his cock and his toes and it's like summer; a halo of euphoria buzzes inside his skull releasing him ever upward. 

–

It might be the first time or the third or the fourth, James' doesn't really know.

After injecting him, Tiago rests his hands upon James' thighs, spreading his legs to make space to crawl between. He looks up into the blonde's blissed-out face while he strips him of his loose, linen trousers, kissing the inside bend of his knees as he works his way up to the center. When he nuzzles his face into James groin, he stays there for awhile basking in his scent as the agent cards his fingers through silky, black hair. 

James thinks he looks beautiful like this, and it's liberating to admit to himself, though he thinks he might've said it aloud by the way Tiago is looking at him; eyes wide with surprise and soft with adoration. 

When they kiss, it's barely a ghost of lips and tongues and then James is shifting down in his seat and Tiago's smile is lost in the indent of his hip. 

When Tiago buries himself back between his legs, James member has softened back into a warm tube of velvet flesh and Tiago mouths at the sheathed head still clothed in a layer of thin cotton, rolling the knob between his lips until the agent is moaning and rocking forward. 

When his cock grows hard, Tiago slips him out through the opening of his shorts. He slides back the tight layer of skin before blowing gently over the exposed slit. He laps of a pearly bead and James trembles with arousal. 

Tiago takes his time because there is no rush when time doesn't matter. 

The agent watches his lover lathe his cock with his talented tongue before he finds his neck can no longer support his head and lets it drop back to face the swimming ceiling.

One last roll of his hips, and James pulses into the tight wet vacuum of his lover's wonderful, decadent mouth. He floats to the clouds in a euphoric haze and he sleeps. 

And he sleeps. 

\--


	10. Chapter 10

After a long afternoon constructing shelves to house a secondary cluster stack, Tiago pulls up his shirt to wipe away the cold-sweat beginning to bead above his eyes and realizes by the tremor in his hands that it's time to pack up for the day.

After picking up the mess and he settles down into his customary chair across from James who is idly carding through sleeves of vinyls as his self-designated disc-jockey. Tiago watches with amusement as the agent scrunches his nose with disapproval, apparently not finding whatever it is he'd been looking for. 

“How is it you have Stevie Wonder and no Al Green?” 

“That sounded a little judgmental,” Tiago points out as James tosses on some old Miles Davis before sinking back down upon the sofa and propping his feet up on the ottoman. 

“Well, your collection isn't entirely unsatisfactory,” he concedes with a lazy grin, his fingers tapping his knee in time with the music. Tiago enjoys the irony with a small twist of a smile, but his good mood quickly dissolves as he stares down into his opened case; finding his supply inexplicably diminished. 

Tiago mentally backtracks through the past week and the math doesn't add up. A question forms but dies on his tongue when he sees James has closed his eyes and is swaying along to the smooth flow of jazz with a decadent expression Tiago knows is a far cry from his default self-containment. 

After staving off his own edge with a short fix that blows the last of his stash, Tiago discards the lonely vial and mourns the delivery he know will not come soon enough to curb the next descent. 

It's just enough liquid heaven to flush out the demons and saturate his brain with a soporific, aural glow, but he's been chasing the dragon long enough that in minutes he comes back down to some place in the middle and that's good enough in his book because he has a puzzle that needs solving. 

Carefully, Tiago stands and crosses the room, reseating himself beside the agent whose unfazed, easy acceptance of this shows in the way he doesn't shift over to grant more space for his company. Instead, James slinks further down into the cushions, his legs spreading enough to where one of his knees ends up resting against Tiago's and the action could be read as an accident, but there's something inviting in the agent's slack, open posture that seems almost of conscious design and that thought alone stirs in Tiago a delicious excitement.

Deliberately, he presses his knee back against his companions' and when the pressure is returned, the friction from the area of contact sparks a bolt of heat that shoots up Tiago's inner thighs straight into his groin.

James lackadaisically stretches and suddenly they are connected shoulder to shoulder and hip to knee and then James is humming along to the tune of velvet, crooning vocals and Tiago, breathless and intoxicated hums beside him. 

James' hands sweeps up the span of his lap to his knees fanning outward, his knuckles grazing the length of Tiago's outer leg pressed against his own and chancing a glance at the agent's face, Tiago sucks in a breath. His companion's lips are curled up in a small, sultry smile and for an instant, he wonders if James is intentionally teasing him.

He knows he can't allow himself to play however. 

Despite James implicit trust in Tiago to abide by his wish to be informed and consenting for any medication he might administer, and despite how much it hurt to have James angry at him, Tiago has only been halfway compliant. It's just that now he's more careful. Since his canny friend is now able to detect the particular effects of his previous intoxicants, he's discovered a new and much more effective concoction to slip the agent. 

His new method is to coat the inside of James' glass in a translucent solution he distills from a potent concentration of SSRI's to muffle his memory combined with MDMA to enhance his libido and counteract the numbing side-effects of the anti-depressant. Tiago puts the glasses in the fridge, and when it dries it is indistinguishable from the film of condensation. 

He shakes up the gin and pours the liquor straight from the tumbler into both of their glasses in plain view of his ever-vigilant guest and knows that once the heroin shoots into the agent's veins he will be open season. 

Right now, however, even though Tiago suspects James is swimming in opiates, which would easily explain the agent's current loosened inhibitions, it isn't enough to make the man forget.

When James fingers suddenly sweep back up their languid path, Tiago's mouth goes dry and his cock swells beneath his fly. He presses a palm against himself and just barely stifles a moan, quick to feign a yawn when James rolls his head to the side to look at him. He quirks a grin and his eyes slide down to his host's lap, fixing upon the tented bunch of fabric in the center. 

The agent's smirks back up at him with a lazy sort of amusement and beneath heavy lids, Tiago observes James' pupil's blown wide, eclipsing the iris; a black moon against a sliver of blue and Tiago knows his companion is high as a kite. 

This more than transparent evidence proves his suspicions and Tiago's arousal abates with his irritation. He'd not taken into consideration that James might grow dependent enough to give into petty thievery, and since there is nothing left, he knows that when they both come down, it's not going to be pretty.

At least the new supply will arrive in the morning as scheduled, and in the meantime, he wonders if he has any methadone or other derivatives laying around. 

Rising with a stretch he abandons a confused looking James and grabs his laptop knowing the agent is too doped up to recall how to bypass the thermite kill-switch that would certainly leave him with a few less fingers.

–

In the dim kitchen, Tiago blows off the steam from his mug as he pulls up a map of Gunkajima. Sweeping his gaze across the abandoned roads littered with the decrepit remnants of a once bustling coal-mining town he considers how ideal the isolated location would be for installing a new hub. Procurement of the island to house a Pacific outfit while convenient will be no mean feat however; considering Nagasaki's recent absorption of Takashima city into their jurisdiction. With Japan's advanced technological developments, sneaking in through the backdoor of their government servers to misdirect naval surveillance will take some serious talent. 

Tiago links together his fingers and stretches his hands out, popping his knuckles with an audible crack.

Fortunately, he's unparalleled in his field. 

His first attempt is not exactly a crash and burn, but his initial conning alerts their security and brute-forcing his way through is no longer a possibility. 

Rolling up his sleeves, Tiago prepares to get dirty and unleashes a botnet army. He pokes around at the damage and riding the split, lays a pretty little encryption over his bot, hijacks the server and bingo: he's in.

Leaning back in his chair, Tiago grins with triumph. Hashima Island is his. Maneuvering around international borders to ship in his equipment might prove a bit problematic, but he'll deal with that later. There's no rush. 

In the meantime, Tiago lets his imagination run away with him, and daydreams about strolling through endless rows of towering cluster stacks, gleaming screens and hangars filled with sparkling new jets; the Master of his Empire; a powerhouse inside a powerhouse. 

In his mind he sees the handsome home he could build for himself to share with James and pictures them laying out on a yacht beneath the warm, summer sun cruising along the coast, but then he recalls just how often James has waxed poetic about sailing and the yacht narrows and stretches into a Sloop and James, shirtless and golden and breathtaking leans against the mast, rope in hand, angling the sails to catch a gust of wind. 

Tiago is startled out his reverie by an annoyed huff as James unsteadily stalks into the kitchen, leaning heavily on his crutch. Looking at the time, he realizes the agent will have begun to come down and by his rough expression, he can tell the man has already discovered no way to climb back up. 

Folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his seat, Tiago quietly observes James throw open the door of the freezer and rifle through for what he assumes is the carton of Morland's. Yanking out the box and pulling out a pack, the agent tamps it several times against his palm and strips it of the cellophane, flicks open the top, lips a cigarette and leans over the stove turning on the gas. 

Once James releases the first exhale, he leans back against the counter with a look of abject relief and watches the smoke drift upward swirling above his head. Tiago, resting an elbow on the table has to press a smirk into his hand, as the agent is still yet to look in his direction. 

“You might as well go ahead and say it,” James sighs. 

“You shouldn't have assumed my supplies were infinite,” Tiago chastens, “I was hoping to apportion the doses to last us through until morning.”

James takes another long drag and shakes his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I do owe you an apology,” he says at last with a slight flush of shame coloring his face. 

Tiago shrugs, he's been through longer stretches, and while the drug still lingers in his system he's too relaxed to be overly anxious about the situation. Besides, a penitent James is a kind James and Tiago also has a brand new island. 

“C'est la vie,” he shrugs with a dismissive wave before standing, “Now let's go chain smoke, crack open a bottle of something good and I'll show you what a terabyte of music looks like.” 

–

According to Rico, the delivery is still in transit and having awoken around 3 with a pounding headache and a hangover to end all others, Tiago's morning is rapidly descending into a downward spiral of cold sweats and nausea. 

James is snappish and looks a bit rough around the edges tossing back Tylenol like Tic Tacs and neither share much of an appetite. 

As the afternoon wags on, Tiago gives up on being productive and the constant tremor is becoming exhausting. 

They call it quits early in the evening and part their separate ways, James grabbing a neck of a bottle on his exit and Tiago dials up Rico demanding the whereabouts of his package.

The man fumbles through the same tiresome explanation, and warily, Tiago clicks out on him mid-sentence before collapsing atop his bed. 

\--

Somewhere in the depth of that second, dry night, slipping in and out of an uneasy sleep, withdrawal grips Tiago like the hand of Death and drags him down into a void of black. 

There's nothing for awhile and he wonders if he's died after all. 

When Tiago's eyes finally open and he knows where he is. He's been here many times before.

At the edge of the abyss the earth turns into a fine silt that slips over the rim in a waterfall cascading down into the shadows below. 

He unsheaths his knife and wipes away the dried flakes of blood upon his thigh before holding it up to his face. He sees himself reflected back in the surface, whole and unruined and the pain that drives through him is more sickening that the blade he buries into his chest. 

This time, when Tiago reaches between his ribs he finds an empty cavity. Terrified and cold, he stares down into the orifice with nothing to offer and so it swallows him instead. 

When he comes to, it's with a resounding crack of a whip against his spine, and he cries out, the searing pain penetrating deep into his flesh. His throat is raw from screaming so all that comes out is a hoarse rasp and even to his own ears he sounds more animal than man. 

There is no mercy, and Tiago recieves blow after blow. The lash slices across his back rending skin from bone until a hot liquid weeps down his flanks. He staggers forward but doesn't fall, the chains that bind his arms above his head keeping him suspended, but every time he lurches forward with another strike it nearly wrenches his shoulders from their sockets. The most intolerable agony is that mother doesn't come, though he protects her with every last breath. 

His tormentor at last unchains him and Tiago drops, collapsing to the ground hard upon his knees. 

The man repeats to him the same questions he's been asked daily for countless months and he doesn't know the answers and those he does he will not tell.

When it occurs to him it comes like a slap to the face: After all this time, she sold him out. 

He laughs until he sobs, and drenched in his own sticky mess of blood and tears he presses his forehead against the cool cement and wonders if she even know how long he's held out, if she'd think it brave or just incredibly deluded. 

If she could see him now her lips would curl in disgust and Tiago can see her cold eyes skewering into him with disappointment. At best, she would pity him and at worst, she would turn away. 

He sees her turn and let's out a wail of despair. He hears himself begging her why, and his jailer barks at him a command he doesn't try to understand before he kicks him cruelly in the side; he hears something crack but he's lost too far inside his grief to care. The heavy door slams shut behind the guard and then Tiago is alone.

He lays still as the rats scurry across the floor, their claws clicking against the concrete as they sniff about for scraps. Blind in the dark, he can feel their beady eyes watching him; waiting. 

Numb against the excruciating pain in his back, it sits instead, heavy in his chest as an unbearable ache.

Tiago curls in on himself like a supplicant before an altar and then he's in an ancient church, kneeling beside his grandmother. Her eyes are fixed ahead to the pulpit, but his watch drifting motes of dust swim upon beams of light. 

The early sun filters in; a rainbow sparkling of color through high-arched stained glass where martyred Saints with doleful eyes gaze down at him awaiting his last confession.

He tells them he wishes he had loved less. 

Biting down hard, Tiago cracks open his back molar and the capsule of hydrogen cyanide melts through his gums and eats a hole through his face. 

The pain consumes him entirely; there is nothing else.

He screams and screams until his vocal chords give out and screams still anyway. Blood and incoherent prayers spill from his ruined mouth but Death proves as unkind as life, denying him release. 

He's still screaming when he wakes. 

James restrains Tiago, holding him down as reality reforms around him, and finally, it occurs to him that James is speaking to him but through the pounding terror in his head, the words are a muddled, meaningless blur. 

Before he realizes it, the agent has already pulled him from his bed and is half hobbling, half dragging his useless body in a stumbling path toward the bathroom. 

James, carrying more than the bulk of his weight, steps them both into his shower and turns on the spray. Cool jets of water soak through Tiago's panic as the agent strains to support himself while stripping him of his robe.

The world spins before him, and Tiago lurches forward, emptying the acid contents of his belly down the drain while James strokes a soothing hand down his back.

He's not sure how long they remain there, huddled together beneath the spray before James helps him out of the shower, wraps him in a towel and tumbles Tiago back into bed. 

He wakes again halfway through the night drenched in sweat and shivering convulsively with his face nestled into the solid warmth of a thigh; and he's being told that under no uncertain terms is he going to die. 

He almost laughs because clearly James has never witnessed the dirty side of withdrawal before and anyway, life clings to Tiago like a disease. 

The universe has a cruel sense of humor, but right now, while James mops his face with a damp cloth, his head cradled in the nest of the agent's lap, he considers that it has it's kinder moments. 

Until he realizes his mask is gone.

Tiago stiffens, seized by a sharp stab of fear that overrides anything else. 

At once, James seems to understand.

“We're sitting in the dark, Tiago, I didn't see.”

He sounds a little exasperated but his tender touch belies his tone as fingers card gently through Tiago's hair. 

Later, he wakes again to James sliding a needle into his vein. Relief flushes through Tiago, calming his ceaseless tremors. 

He touches the mask on his face and realized James must have replaced it for him. 

“Thank you,” he slurs, finding the agent's hand and squeezing it before passing out once more into a dreamless sleep. 

\--

In the morning Tiago opens his eyes to find James snoring softly beside him and his heart clenches tightly in his chest. Awash with a love so intense he can't breathe with it, he finds himself reaching out and caressing his companion's face until he stirs awake. 

“Hello,” Tiago whispers softly, retracting his hand though still gazing at James' with an abject adoration he doesn't remember to hide. 

The agent blinks at him at first with tired confusion before it dawns on him where he is and then his unguarded expression is soft with relief. 

“Are you alright?” James asks.

“I am.”

Damning any reason to hesitate, Tiago leans forward with fixed aim, but at the last second James turns away and his kiss lands as just the slightest brush of lips against the corner of the agent's mouth. 

Tiago closes his eyes and sucks in a breath before drawing back. 

Hurt, but upset with only himself, he nervously tries to gauge James for a reaction, but the agent has raised his shields and his lips are a stiff, apprehensive line as he stares at the ceiling. 

An uncomfortable silence stretches and then James is climbing out of Tiago's bed and grabbing for his crutch. 

“I'm going to go prepare us something to eat, if you need anything, let me know.”

Tiago nods mutely, still appalled at himself for being so stupid. 

–-

Breakfast could be an uncomfortable affair, but Tiago is determined to fix this. 

When James comes back over with the pitcher of milk and takes a seat, he notices how tired the man looks, and wonders how much sleep the agent lost taking care of him. 

“I want you to know that I'm grateful,” he begins and James looks up at him with surprise. 

“What little I did can't possibly repay the weeks you've sacrificed on my behalf.”

Tiago is touched before he realizes the distance James has put into his words. 

“In all good conscience, I wouldn't have done any less.” 

James smiles; it's impersonal but polite and then it flits away as quickly as it came. 

“You know, there was nothing meant by that kiss, my dear,” Tiago scolds with a grin, “I just forgot how prudish you Brits can be about these little things.”

The agent sighs and looks down at his toast and Tiago cannot determine whether or not he's succeeded in convincing him. 

James looks back up with a tired, wry expression. 

“...Right." 

Tiago blows out an exasperated breath and shakes his head. “Please, your ego is big enough as it is, don't flatter yourself.” 

The agent raises his eyebrows and sips his coffee. 

“Your breakfast is getting cold,” he drawls, smirking. 

Tiago looks at his plate with a frown and takes a bite of his roll, all the while inwardly thrilled to have leaped another hurdle.

“Oh, by the way, there are fresh eggs, too,” James remembers. 

Tiago smirks. “Is that a nice way of asking me to make you some?” 

“I wouldn't want to impose.”

Pushing back his chair, Tiago stands and strolls into the prep area. “You didn't happen to see a sleeve of drafting paper along with the rest of the supplies did you?”

“I laid it on the coffee table in the living room. Working on something new?”

Tiago grins as he cracks the eggs into a copper skillet and turns on the gas.

“Just a little boat.” 

When he looks up, James is looking up at him with barely contained enthusiasm and Tiago can't help but laugh, his spirits soaring. 

“Of course,” he tells the agent, “I may have to defer to you for your expertise.”

If only James knew that Tiago one days hopes he'll get the chance to watch him sail it.


	11. Chapter 11

After a day full of sketching draft after draft of sailboats and polishing off the rest of a bottle of good scotch, Tiago settles his laptop upon his thighs, pulls open CAD and begins to transfer their drawings into a 3-dimensional layout.

Thoroughly engaged in every aspect of their project, James huddles down beside him, instructing Tiago on the various intricacies of their design and through an organic process of complementary interest and some small amount of compromise, the sloop evolves into a gorgeous, high-performance schooner. 

When the agent leans over him to demonstrate something between the screen and the manual laying over the keyboard segueing off into technical miscellanea Tiago knows he ought to be listening to, he instead finds himself drifting; distracted by the comfortable, drunken heat radiating between them. 

He wants to bury himself into James; crawl inside the man and stay there. 

His companion's voice fades into the background as Tiago dreams up a richly furnished, handsome interior of cherry wood paneling and a decadent master suite with low, intimate lighting: James naked, bronze and glistening, lays upon their bed working several slick fingers up inside himself, spreading himself open for him with a luxurious smile. 

“I think in order to accommodate the length of the hull, the mainsail is going to need to be at least half a length wider than you're making it,” the agent says and Tiago's vision dissipates as he notes the critical engineering flaw brought to his attention.

Upon expanding the sail, the illustration transforms in accordance with the newly entered calculations and Tiago's heart swells as his companion looks on approvingly.

“She's remarkable,” James marvels. 

Tiago agrees: the sleek elegance, sheer size and speed alone will be an unparalleled envy, which means equipping her with a full reserve of weaponry will be a vital necessity if ever she must negotiate dicier sides of the globe. 

“She'll also need a name.” 

Tiago watches the agent chew the side of his thumb as his eyes scope across the room for inspiration, eventually settling upon the book shelf. 

“The Chimera.” 

“Virgil?”

James nods staring at the screen. “Are you actually going to contract her for construction?” 

“Of course,” Tiago confirms half-distracted, calculating the engine requirements, “Wouldn't you want to sail her?”

“But she's your ship.” 

“As well as being yours,” Tiago counters. 

Working out some of the other minor specifications on the model to ensure the Chimera's functionality, they lapse into a silence. 

Then, at long last, he realizes at some point, James eyes have shifted from the screen to watch him with a quiet, thoughtful expression. Tiago wonders what he's thinking and almost asks, but decides it would be safer to swim in safer waters for now. 

“Shall we fix supper?” he asks lightly. 

James looks down at himself and pats his stomach with a small smile. “Trying to feed me up, are you? At this rate, if I'm still laid up like this in a month I'll have gone completely to fat.” 

Tiago stares down ironically at his companion's lean middle and grins, “Oh, I doubt your ego would suffer you putting on a few stone.”

“You know what I miss most of all is taking a good run,” the agent complains without intending to sound as if he's actually complaining, “It's been so long since I've been outside I'm starting to feel like a shut-in.” 

Fortunately, Tiago is well-versed in the versatility of James' distinctive style of subtlety and he can clearly decipher the couched, unvoiced desire; it shines through the surface like bolded lettering. 

He has to hide a smile. 

There is yet a card or two he keeps hidden up his sleeve and he knows once the one is played he'll win a goldmine of chips to add to his growing pile.

However, the thrill quickly dies in it's conception as Tiago realizes how spectacularly his plan could backfire: If he should unlock the door to James' gilded cage, he wonders if the open sky might inspire the agent to sprout wings and fly right out. 

But then, he remembers he holds the net: a prepared glass awaits, chilling inside his refrigerator and chemical containment is every bit an effective means of captivity as any physical structure.

He should know; he keeps himself tethered to the cellars everyday with this method. 

“I will say, a run might not be advisable, but I think if you're so inclined, we can arrange for a bit of fresh air.”

James glances up at him with a careful expression of half-guarded hope, “What do you mean? We can go outside?”

“Why not?” Tiago challenges amused by his companion's aghast expression. 

“And you only tell me now?” 

“You never asked.” He points out, “Of course, due to security around the perimeter, we can't simply stroll right out the doors, but on the level above I do keep a pool and there's a retractable skylight in the ceiling.”

James, to his relief, doesn't look too disappointed by this amendment. 

“That's a hell of a feat of engineering,” he remarks after a moment of thought. 

“Not particularly,” Tiago explains, “The pool was already here before I dug underground. It used to be a part of this really spectacular, grand old hotel back in the day, but of course, in the late 70's when the recession hit the local economy, it took a nose dive straight into the ground. When the property failed to sell I purchased the whole lot for a steal.”

"Right place, right time," James grins. 

“I'm afraid we might be burning the midnight oil, but I don't see why we couldn't make up for it with an extra pot of coffee come morning,” Tiago shrugs, “Besides, it's a full moon, and I'm a bit of a sucker for the romantic.” 

James catches his teasing grin, “As long as you don't start spouting poetry I think I'd be amenable to a tour.”

Tiago claps a hand over his heart, feigning offense, “Alas, I've been forcibly repressed, but I think I can manage to abstain.”

“I appreciate your accommodation.”

“Indulging you is such a hardship,” Tiago retorts with a wry grin, offering a hand to aid his companion from his seat. 

“So I've noticed.”

Tiago pretends he doesn't hear James mutter this; feeling the creep of a telling warmth color his face, he turns quickly away in a show of putting away his laptop as he has no ready quip to deliver in his own defense and a limited version of the truth is still an exploitable vulnerability. 

–

Collecting the chilled, prepared glasses from the refrigerator and fetching a bottle of Pinot Grigio while James is otherwise occupied with the arduous task of finding his shoes, Tiago searches the drawers for a corkscrew and at last, packing away the collected items, returns to his companion, ready to escort him up the lift. 

Once the compartment ascends to their destination and jolts to a stop, Tiago espies James' attention focused ahead in the reflection off the metal surface of the opening doors and can't help but feel a vicarious pulse of excitement when he hears him gasp. 

Bracing himself, Tiago absorbs James awe with a buoyant pride but doesn't say anything as the vast natatorium speaks for itself, boasting domed skylights arching in a vast crystal slope over a wide stretch of shimmering water. 

Kicking off his shoes, Tiago strolls barefoot across cool marble with one goal in mind that will truly impress and with the flip of a switch, the mechanized roof retracts, lifting away large panels of glass to admit an influx of warm, fragrant breeze.

The moon casts down a gentle glow James basks beneath like Dante resurfacing and his eyes shine with half-starved relief, but as breathtaking an aesthetic this reveling Icarus presents, the allusions drawn leave a bitter taste in Tiago's mouth. 

He wonders if it's too delusional to entertain instead, James as an allegorical Persephone to his Hades; at least in some translations she reciprocated her captor's love. 

But then, the transitory, malleable nature of the concept de facto sustains Tiago's hope; and it's only bulwarked by the way James looks up at the sky sampling freedom and appreciating it without yearning to claim it for himself. 

Joining Tiago by the edge of the pool, the agent sets aside the drink his host has poured for him to roll up his trousers. His feet enter the warm water with a gentle splash and James sighs contentedly before glancing over at his companion. 

“Mulberry and linden blooms,” James says after awhile, “Distinctively Mediterranean if I remember correctly.”

Tiago spins the stem of his glass between his fingers and grins enigmatically in reply. 

“You possess an admirable olfactory memory.” 

“Are we somewhere in Greece?” 

“Oh, James, very naughty,” Tiago warns, “You know if I told you I'd have to kill you.” 

His threat is received by an amused smirk. 

“Then for the sake of self-preservation I'll have to hope you don't say.” 

Tiago grins down into his drink and they lapse into a comfortable silence before he dares chance a discreet glance over at his companion. 

The Pinot Grigio in the other man's glass is only half-imbibed and he knows the effects of the drug-coating will only have just begun to subtly work the agent's inhibitions. 

James pensive expression pokes at his curiosity though, and finally Tiago is compelled to ask. 

“A penny for your thoughts?”

“Is that all they're worth?” James laughs with a small, self-deprecating laugh, “In a way, I think I forgot you might be human enough to keep a window to the world that's not entirely pixelized.” Tiago scoffs.

“I'm not sure if I should take that as an insult.” 

“I don't intend offense, it's merely an observation,” James clarifies. 

“An observation of what?”

Tiago watches his companion hesitate, scratching the stubble on his chin as he considers the right words to answer this. 

“I'm not sure whether this world you've built around yourself is more of a mask, a fortification or an extension,” James eventually explains, “But in many ways it's certainly more revealing of you than you are of yourself.” 

“I'm terribly curious to know what you've assessed.”

James looks at him with wry amusement. “A secret strong-hold buried deep underground? What about that isn't painfully obvious? It's almost cliché.”

Tiago decides to take the bate. “Fine. Elaborate. Provide me with your best analysis, Doctor Freud.”

James doesn't reply immediately and instead, turns to look at him with eyes so sharp they pierce right through him for an unsettling, long moment before he slowly draws his gaze back up to the stars. 

“You select a very specific version of yourself and wear it like a second skin. It's well constructed so parsing what's genuine from what's performance is damn near impossible.” 

“If you see every card in my hand, then what fun is the game?” Tiago counters and James mouth pulls into a tight line. 

“Besides, you're every bit the showman, yourself, Oh-Seven” Tiago reminds his companion, “Or you wouldn't be on track to Double-Oh. They've certainly trained you up well.”

And then suddenly he's being slid under the microscope of James' scrutiny and were he less practiced enduring the harshest of interrogation, he's sure he'd be crushed beneath the weight of it. 

“Sounds like you would know,” the agent says pointedly and Tiago blinks myopically at him, feeling like he's lost track of their conversation somehow.

“I'm unsure what you're implying,” he says slowly, “What's this I'm supposed to know?” 

“What it takes to make that status.”

“I certainly can make an educated guess,” Tiago defends, “With the data I have at my disposal, it isn't exactly rocket science.”

“You were an agent,” James bluntly imputes with utter conviction.

Of course, staring blankly at the man isn't the best answer, but Tiago senses at this point it would be a fool's mission to try and contradict the accusation.

James smirks like a cat that got the cream.

“I'm right.” 

“Ah, the little victories are the most rewarding, aren't they?” Tiago muses in concession, “Yes, I was an agent. Now are you content with this knowledge or are you going to dissect me all night?” 

“What happened?” James asks curiously without a beat. 

“You really should know better,” Tiago sighs, dragging a hand wearily down his face, “My past is closed for repairs, please follow the detour to the next exit.” 

James pulls a hand through his hair with a frustrated frown and looks back down at the pool. 

“Some doors are better left closed,” the agent admits, “I'll drop it. I'm sorry if I hit a nerve.” 

The sincerity in his tone dissolves Tiago's irritation and he finds himself smiling in spite of himself. “I can't fault you for your wiring,” he shrugs, “No harm done.” 

“You know,” James muses after a thoughtful pause, “I still hold to my original theory that this place is a lot like you.”

Tiago groans. “Please, spare me. If you say anything about 'hidden depths' I will be terribly ashamed of you.” 

“I'm not that plebeian,” James huffs looking mildly offended, so in a gesture of platitude, Tiago tops the agent off with the rest of the bottle and smiles apologetically. 

“Please, continue, I'll admit I'm curious. It's an interesting analogy.” 

Taking a deep breath, James looks down at the drink swirling to a still inside his glass. “If your home stands proxy for who you are, then this place up here--” he explains, casting a hand in a swift motion summing the pool-house, “Speaks for itself.”

“There is this great foundation that's been recovered from ruin and all the scars it bears only add a richness to the texture," he continues, "You've changed this place. Made functional, necessary changes but they're an entire estrangement from the original style so the resulting design is a paradoxical synthesis; it's uncommon, but it's fascinating.” 

“You think I'm fascinating,” Tiago concludes. 

“Certainly a variance from the norm,” James agrees striking his last match to light a cigarette. 

Tiago watches the exhaled smoke catch silver from the beam of moonlight as it drifts above them in a wispy haze.

A ring floats past, expands and dissipates. 

“Not in a bad way,” the agent clarifies puffing out several more smoke rings before leaning back upon the palms of his hands. A speck of ash drops from the cigarette dangled between his lips and lands upon his chest but he doesn't seem to notice and somehow, unconsciously, Tiago finds he's already brushed it away to leave behind a smeared trail of gray. 

There is an awkward moment where they both freeze with sudden awareness of the accidental boundary crossed and then Tiago finds himself clenching his hands in his lap as he watches James suck a thumb between his lips to wet it. It's impossible to tear away his gaze when the agent wipes away the last of the ashy streak leaving a slick of saliva in it's place. 

Hypnotized by the glistening patch of skin over sleek muscle, Tiago almost forgets James is carefully watching him before the man clears his throat. 

“Cigarette?”

The top of the pack is flicked open, suspended in the air between them. He takes one, grateful for the merciful distraction. 

“Light?” 

“Please,” Tiago responds, placing the Morland in his mouth and expecting to be handed the matchbox. Instead, James is suddenly there, leaning into his space with his own cigarette perched between his lips. He tilts his head obligingly to facilitate the exchange, aiming the lit tip to kiss against the end of Tiago's. 

Tiago takes a long drag and the tobacco sparks. By the time he's exhaled, James has already moved away and is calmly watching the rising smoke. 

“Out of matches,” he explains with a casual shrug when he catches his host staring at him. 

There is a long span of silence that settles between them, yet strung with a new tension that James seems immune to. Tiago wishes he could catch a glimpse of the agent's pupils to determine how far gone he is to the drugs he's unknowingly imbibed, but at the moment he has no such luck as for the time being, his companion continues to gaze with concentrated focus down at the rippling pool. 

Then, out of nowhere, he chuckles softly. Tiago starts, and almost chokes on the smoke from his cigarette and when he looks up, James is watching him with an odd, thoughtful expression.

“I don't mind,” he says simply and out of context. 

Tiago blinks. 

And then he sees it: dilated pupils, dry mouth, placid expression. 

James licks his chapped lips and sighs, put out that he has to repeat himself. 

“I don't mind,” he says again slowly as if Tiago is somehow the one who's actually impaired. 

“What don't you mind?”

“This,” James clarifies with a meaningful glance and a flick of a wave between them for emphasis. “There hasn't been anyone else that has ever really given two shits what happens to me.” 

Tiago looks at the agent carefully, trying to discern his specific meaning. At the same time he braces himself against his desire to project more into the statement than is intended. 

“If you give a shit, that's something,” James explains with a small shrug, taking a long drag off his cigarette. “More than I've had, anyway.”

Any ability to meet his companion with a half-coherent response flees Tiago when he notices the way James is suddenly looking at him with a raw sort of desolation he's never seen before. 

It reaches inside of Tiago encouraging an answering hunger and hope. 

James rubs his chin against the palm of his hand with a sullen smile down at his empty glass. “I can't promise... no. I mean, I'm not sure I can be whatever it is you're looking for.”

Another long silence lapses before the agent looks back up with a confused frown. 

“Frankly, Tiago, I have no idea what you're looking for and I'm half terrified that one of these days you might tell me.” 

“You shouldn't,” he goes on to say, “Because I don't want to let you down.”

“What do you want me to say?” Tiago asks hesitantly, feeling out the tenuous undercurrent of their conversation as carefully as a wolf might corner a frightened rabbit. 

“Nothing,” James replies finishing the last of cigarette before butting it out on the edge of the pool. “That way, I can't let you down.”

Tiago freezes as his companion leans toward him. Reaching up like a curious child, James strokes an inquisitive finger along the edge of his mask before stilling just beneath the rim. He looks at his hand curiously, surprised, as if the action was unintended and then he's drawing his hand along Tiago's jaw apologetically.

“If you can't show me then I won't ever ask you to. I just don't want you to think that I'm afraid of you,” James tells him plainly. 

“Or of this,” he adds before his lips are suddenly hovering just over Tiago's. The shared air between them is warm and damp with anticipation and Tiago's heart jackhammers inside his chest; he can just about taste the mouth he knows would be sweet with wine and acrid tobacco. 

However, just before Tiago can bridge the final, infinitesimal gap, James is out  
of reach, grabbing his crutch and pulling himself to his feet.

Tiago shuts his eyes and can barely keep from growling his frustration. He inhales deeply, mouring the loss of a missed opportunity that was only a hairsbreadth away less than 3 seconds ago, but theres a confusing sort of joy knowing that if it can happen once, there's the infant chance it could again.

He's grateful the agent's back is turned as he collects himself and by the time a less than completely lucid James is turning back around, Tiago is all cool blood and unaffected smiles. 

 

–

The lost kiss repeats in Tiago's mind; a stubborn, never-ending cycle like a Mobius circle orbiting forever inside Euclidean space and eventually he gives up trying to read, settling instead for watching James as the agent continues to fiddle with the gyroscope he'd swiped from the bookshelf after supper. The gentle whirring of the rotor spinning within the gimble is a white noise in the stretching silence. 

It's not particularly tangible, but there is something charged in the atmosphere like lightening brewing in a pit of clouds before the crack of thunder and it crackles between them convective and alive. 

The feeling spikes beneath his skin like a terrible itch and Tiago; ten-times past done is suddenly clutching himself down; struggling to contain the rising well of madness that would have him leap from his chair to throw down the proverbial gauntlet. 

If he had the courage he'd do it right now: he'd shred through the curtains and crash this masquerade of drugs and masks and half-truths; he wants to see what James would do if he were to crawl between his knees, tear through his fly with his teeth and swallow him down without the assurance of liquid coercion and a sugar-coated lie ready on his tongue in case his counterfeited Jack of Hearts should one morning climb out of Lethe with a head full of half-formed questions he knows he'll have to answer to. 

Tiago is nothing if not prepared. 

Pulling tight the strap around his arm, he smiles bitterly and slips the needle into his vein, delivering the dope. The familiar flood of buzzing warmth spreads quickly, rescuing Tiago as a lighthouse would lead a lost ship ashore. 

He doesn't have to see James to be aware of him watching expectantly, awaiting his turn. When at last Tiago can pry his boneless limbs from the chair, he goes to him. 

James eyes flicker between his and the needle he holds they both know Tiago has just used on himself. He's presenting a challenge before he's even decided to go through with it and the agent wordlessly accepts, presenting his arm. 

When he's finished revealing the needle, Tiago steps forward and James reflexively spreads his legs, subconsciously trained to accommodate him.

He knows his companion is surprised by his own ready response by the flash of momentary confusion that furrows his brow.

Tiago tests his resolve, remaining too close for too long, standing over the agent between his thighs, and he refuses to be the first to move. 

What feels like an age passes as they carefully study each other before James finally is reaching out and snagging Tiago by the belt loops of his trousers. His fingers slip under the waistband for leverage and pull him down until he's forced to straddle his companion's knees which close beneath him to provide a seat. James secures him there, bracing his hands firmly upon Tiago's hips as he tightens the tourniquet around his companion's arm and then awaits permission which is granted but a second later. 

James exhales slowly, nods, and then Tiago is sliding his own needle into the crook of the agent's elbow. They both watch the liquid push inside and then when he pulls it back out, Tiago watches James' eyes roll back into his head and he's so close he can feel the breath of air escape the agent's mouth as a groan tumbles from his lips.

The delay is a slow, sweet torture and Tiago rocks himself forward impatiently; he's been rock hard since the second he injected James; since the moment the agent accepted Tiago inside himself with his companion's contaminated needle.

The intimate symbolism of the act can't be lost on him. 

It's not.

Tiago searches his eyes for something and finds it.

Dropping the needle, Tiago surges forward, claiming James' mouth beneath his own in a rough clash of teeth and tongues that's too desperate to be anything but messy and possessive. 

James urgently yanks him forward crushing together their groins and Tiago trembles and bucks against him as his lover swallows his moans.

Freeing them both from their pants, skin presses tight against skin and the heat and friction fires off nerve endings that shoot from the tip of his cock to the bed of his groin in a wild explosion, curling his toes with every wet slide. 

Tiago's tightens a fist around their shafts, squeezing them together as he laps his way deep into James' delicious mouth. It's not enough. He needs more. He needs to consume James or be consumed. Either way, he needs James inside and the agent writhes against him as he licks his way around the shell of his ear. 

“I want you inside me,” he whispers, and this nearly sends his lover over the edge, but he tightens his grip around the base of his cock to hold him off and James rakes his nails down his back, wracked by sobs of denied release.

“Would you like that, James?” Tiago asks, moving his knees to either side of the agent's hips and raising up just enough to allow the head of his lover's cock to press against the crack of his ass. 

“Oh my God,” James moans, “Yes.” 

“And you want this?” 

“Yes, yes,” he keens, sweat rolling down his face as his erection bumps against Tiago's entrance. “Please, yes.” 

Tiago stalls, biting his lips, knowing this will hurt without preparation and prepares to sink slowly down when something suddenly changes in James' eyes; he looks wild; mad. 

And then he slams up into Tiago with unforgiving force, breaching tight muscle that tears a little as he brutally owns the man in his lap he doesn't know is anything more than a phantom. 

James frantically ruts himself inside with a primal strength, driven by mindless need, careless of his leg, careless of his pain, careless of his lover. 

The act is violent, violating and unifying and pain rips through Tiago; he can feel the tears spill down his face as James makes him his. 

It's the most beautiful he's ever felt. 

He comes hard, as James shouts, spilling inside of him, jetting strand after strand across his lover's glistening belly. 

They collapse together in a panting heap, and Tiago nestles his face into the crook of James neck before wrapping his arms around his shivering back. He holds him like this and rocks them together gently. 

Tiago feels so full with James' love coating him inside and leaking out from where he's been used, reveling in the searing agony that shocks up his spine from the center of his core. It's a bliss he nearly succumbs to, but he knows better.

He combs his fingers through his lover's hair, adoring him desperately and finally when James drifts to sleep Tiago crawls stiffly from his lap to clean away the evidence. 

At last, he maneuvers his lover back into his trousers, kisses him goodnight and collapses beneath the hot spray of his shower.


	12. Chapter 12

The click of the ventilation system turning on stirs James from the tail-end of sleep, but he no longer trusts whether he's truly awake. 

Upon collecting his bearings, his first thought is for the dryness of his mouth which he quickly abates with a gulp of fresh water from his bedside. He's long since given up bothering himself about its origin, because while once the idea of his host creeping into his room set James' teeth on edge, he's long since decided it's easier to simply accept Tiago's invasive kindness (and he certainly doesn't resent the convenience of it). 

With his belly sloshing full, James at last registers the dull pressure of a full bladder, but not quite ready to vacate the comfortable warmth of his bed, he settles back beneath the blankets and reaches a hand down inside his briefs to clamp a fist around the base of his dick. Effectively staving off the initial urgency, James loosely tugs himself a little as he softens, somewhat mystified by a slight tenderness. 

Pulling back the fold of skin, he swipes a thumb along his slit, wiping away a small dribble of piss. James squints down at himself and all appears normal aside from a little chafing. He even smells like soap down there, which is strange considering he hasn't yet washed. 

He shrugs it off after an extra moment of self-examination and decides he'll toss his briefs in case the irritation is from residual detergent just to be on the safe side. Startled by a rustling from the hall, James hand whips out of his pants snapping the elastic band back against himself. Wincing at the sting, he glares up at the source of the knocking, but the door never opens. 

“Breakfast in 20,” James' host informs. 

“I'll be out in a bit,” he responds through a yawn listening to Tiago pad away. 

The same strange mental energy he's felt every morning lately compels James to rise and he sheds his exhaustion like a thread-worn coat. 

In a way, he doesn't really want to look this particular gift horse in the mouth because this newly acquired quirk certainly has had its advantages, and he's no scientist by any stretch but he knows the ingrained biology of circadian rhythm can't possibly deviate so radically naturally. 

But this is just one of a few little aberrations James has recently discovered. 

For one: the zen effect is relaxing and has allowed him to make significant strides in his rehabilitation. Also, reality is always a concise, concrete linearity. The focus is almost too clear, like putting on glasses with 20/20 vision. 

One issue is, he's missing blocks of time again like the first time Tiago laced his drinks and the disturbing, graphic dreams have returned, now more vivid than ever. 

He senses the modification of perception is artificial because after all, once in a blue moon life feels richer again if not always easy and the dreams he remembers are pleasantly unremarkable. 

There are days James misses himself like a phantom limb because he feels more like a superficial contrivance wearing the skin of someone he used to be. On the inside he's a vagrant ghost drifting from point A to C without living the experience between. 

The thing is, he feels a confusing mess of feelings for Tiago and aside from being prone to slipping James drugs as if James is some sort of lab rat, he considers the man a friend and so James thinks he might be willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt. 

Playing devil's advocate against himself, James views the alternative suspects in lineup: a long month of recovery spent in sunless isolation incubating a mess of neuroses might be a contributing factor, but if nothing else, the most likely culprit is the needle. 

This, James is forced to dismiss because he knows his altered state clearly eclipses the usual effects of opiate metabolization and thus, by process of elimination, it's evident that the only other explanation as to what's happening inside his brain must be of external manufacture. 

It's one hell of damning, complicated conclusion but James doesn't experience the great sense of the outrage he realizes he's logically entitled to. Most of the time it's far too easy to simply accept, suppress and roll with the flow of whatever chemicals are lulling his colicky neurons to rest. 

Tiago may regularly and repeatedly violate all kinds of boundaries, but despite his unconventional approach to slipping James the goods, he can't fault the man his effective pharmacology. He can accept that Tiago wants to help, but he's sick of the deceit. The drugs are acceptable for now, but James is the pilot of his own brain and does not appreciate being stripped of his personal autonomy. 

Flipping on the bedside lamp, he at last climbs out of his bed and as soon as he puts full weight on both feet he can't help but flinch as his healing sartorius cramps in a way it hasn't for weeks. Massaging around the mottled scar, he works out the ache with a small frown of confusion.

When he feels relatively relaxed again, James pulls himself out of his crouched position and sucks in a sharp breath. Suspiciously, there's a peculiar tightness spanning through a very specific muscle group his seasoned experience identifies as a product of a very specific type of exertion.

Recognition of this immediately triggers a resurfacing flood of images from the night before. 

When it comes, its winds James like a punch to the gut, and suddenly he wishes he'd had his drug laced tea before experiencing this particular memory. 

Tiago fucking himself down on James' lap; or rather, James fiercely, violently fucking Tiago until the man is a sobbing, bleeding wreck immolates behind his eyes with vengeful clarity robbing him of his strength. Rendered mute with a distant, mounting horror, James sinks slowly back upon the edge of his bed.

It's with stunning clarity he can suddenly recount the scene down to the last detail.

Of course, as real as it all seems, he's been stricken before with similar anxiety. It could once more, be a product of his imagination but this time he thinks it might be wise to err on the side of caution. James decides he's going to have to be proactive and tread carefully, sniff about for clues. 

He'll skip breakfast, his mind will be his and he will observe. 

At the very least, it's probably time to address the drug situation.  
Tiago will owe him this time around and James will make him pay up; he's always fancied a custom Walther. 

It's not like he's going to admit to the reason he's really upset, and he's almost certain he can't hold Tiago accountable for a few perverse dreams he has about the man. 

Almost certain.

His certainty wavers and it's becoming terribly exhausting.

James can almost envision the scenario where he confesses how many times he's imagined Tiago down on his knees sucking him off. Grinning to himself he can see his host's aghast expression. 

The grin slips off his face as he imagines what might happen next, and it isn't terribly farfetched. James has sensed Tiago's interest segueing more into attraction for some time, but his confirmation was in the natatorium. The end of that evening is choppy in his memory, but earlier on, he would have had to be blind not to see the way Tiago looked at him. 

And for a few moments here and there, James was almost tempted to throw down his resolve and go to bed with the man. 

He won't though, because there is something too intense in the way he looks at James when he thinks he's too doped up to decipher the meaning or remember it later. The countdown to the day when James will be forced to leave for lack of legitimate reason to remain is fast approaching and he already fears Tiago will ask him to stay. There will be nothing left to conceal the truth behind the request and James will be forced to finally reject him outright. 

It would be worse if there were romantic entanglement involved. 

Tiago's mask has slipped at times just enough to reveal the horror he's suffered; that he continues to endure everyday. James remembers vividly the night he bathed away the man's fever; the deep etch of scars marring his body. 

He prays Tiago won't beg him to stay because James is afraid there is a part of him that would agree to.


	13. Chapter 13

Tiago is careful but James is carefully watching him. 

There is an almost indistinguishable deliberation in the way Tiago moves; a conservation of excess motion disguised by an almost feline languidness.

He's clearly overcompensating for some, obscure discomfort and is taking pains to ensure he's not found out. 

James remembers Kincade's old, three-legged mousing cat that used to patrol the downs of Skyfall. As a young boy, he would lay concealed in the grass, watching the beast stalk his supper. Nature taught James firsthand the rules of the hunt; to admit deficit to your prey was to return home with an empty belly. 

Suspicion is a rising tide swelling over the shoreline because the comparison is apt; Tiago's artifice is high art, but the moment the brush slips, the portrait is ruined. When he thinks he's safe, when he thinks Sartre has wholly captured James' attention, Tiago shifts in his chair, and this one fleeting, damning moment, is all it takes to crumble the manicured facade. 

Peering carefully over the top of his book, James catches the twist of a grimace and the hitch of an in-drawn breath. It lures the snake from beneath the rock inside his mind and dread constricts James' throat but he tries to remember that this isn't concrete proof. 

There is always a margin for error. 

Tiago glances up at James prepared with a flat, serene smile; expression a mimicry of his replica Kroisos Kouros perched in the center of the coffee table. 

James eyes skip from the miniature statue back to his companion before retreating to fathom the intricate weave of the rug. It's a far safer option. 

“Are you alright?” Tiago asks. 

“Are you?” James mirrors. 

Tiago stares at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. 

“Is there any reason why you've been watching me like a hawk all morning?” he finally asks. James fingers itch to curl into the security of his palms but he leaves them open upon his lap. He wants to demonstrate calm; project it. 

At least, that's his intention. 

“You seem uncomfortable.” 

“Not in the least,” Tiago lies. 

The deception is so effortless, words escape James. He can do little but nod his head and accept the answer. 

“Any reason you skipped breakfast?” Tiago asks, redirecting focus. 

“Not particularly hungry I suppose.” 

“Perhaps a cup of tea might stimulate the appetite?” 

James considers the offer. “That would be appreciated,” he responds purposefully infusing gratitude into his tone. 

When Tiago gets up, James makes a show of returning his attention to existentialist philosophy. To be honest, he hasn't processed a word of the text in over an hour, but he does remember to turn a page every so often. He makes certain to appear engaged once again when his host returns a few minutes later to deliver the mug. 

“Thank you,” James says before taking a long, close-lipped sip. 

For awhile they sit in a steady, peaceful silence. 

When Tiago excuses himself to his back office, James tips the entire contents of the mug into the philodendron. It needed to be watered anyway. 

Around 20 minutes later, his host returns, needles in hand. James suspects that Tiago would expect that whatever he's laced his drink with to be taking effect by now, and so as not to discourage the assumption, he relaxes in his chair and dons a dull-eyed, lazy expression. 

“Need a pop?” Tiago offers. 

James shakes his head. “Later. But if you don't mind, I might pop off for a bit of a nap.” 

He's not sure whether his companion looks more disappointed or disconcerted. The latter raises some red flags and James considers that perhaps he's not supposed to be acting sedated. 

“Prefer a mid-afternoon nightcap instead?” Tiago suggests, abandoning the needles in favor for a new tactic. James plays along.

“Sure, anything is fine,” he replies, giving his host permission to enact whatever trick he has stored up his sleeve. Of course, Tiago doesn't miss the opportunity to confirm James' suspicions, however unknowingly. 

He turns his back and mixes a drink. James anxiety blossoms in the pit of his stomach turning to a brick of lead when a simple cocktail takes a moment longer than it should. 

James is almost disappointed by how easy this game of deception is proving on both their sides. 

“Here's your 'nooncap',” Tiago says with a smirk, handing him the glass. 

James takes another one of his close-lipped sips and wonders how he can discreetly dispose of the liquid before his companion notices the lack of change in its volume. 

“I feel a little like a lush sitting here drinking by myself,” he points out. 

“Well, how rude of me,” Tiago chuckles, “I'll join you.” 

James knows it's risky as hell, but he pours a sizable portion of the liquor into the plant at his side and when Tiago turns back around, his own drink in hand, James makes a show of bottoming the contents of his glass. 

He vaguely wonders just how much the poor succulent can take before it withers from the mystery poisons leeching into its soil. 

James meets Tiago's wide-eyed bemusement with an abashed grin and shrugs. 

“You need another so soon?” His host asks. 

“Maybe in a bit, I'll let this first one settle.” 

Tiago steps carefully around the table and settles upon the sofa beside him. 

“You don't mind if I sit here, do you?”

“Should I?” James counters with an ironic lilt that Tiago doesn't miss. 

“You're feeling a bit better I presume?” 

“That,” James drawls, “Is an interesting question.” 

Tiago looks at him curiously. “How so?”

“Well, to be perfectly frank, I'm not sure,” he muses, fishing, “Perhaps a little warm.” 

“Brandy is good for that,” Tiago agrees, casually stretching an arm along the back of the cushion behind James' shoulders. “Would you like for me to fetch you a water?”

The agent shrugs, seeing no harm in the offer. It will at least provide him a moment to plan his next move. 

Tiago returns for the third time with his latest glass and James drinks it down somewhat gratefully. In truth, he is feeling warm, but this is due to the creeping anxiety unsuppressed by the morning dose of meds he skipped when he opted out of breakfast. That he can feel and recognize this so keenly is disheartening in an of itself. 

“A little less hot about the collar?” Tiago asks watching him avidly, as if he's some kind of test subject on the lab table. 

James finds it hard to maintain the charade under this level of scrutiny and worries how long he can draw this out.

“Quite,” he replies crunching down on an ice cube for emphasis. 

The moment his companion encroaches upon him too intimately, James will have proof that his deepest fear is indeed the sinister reality it's shaping up to be. Thus, something inside James withers and dies the moment he feels Tiago's nimble fingers creep beneath his loosened shirt collar. 

The massage gently loosens the knots at the base of his neck, and while it should be a comfort, it makes James' skin crawl knowing it's just a segueway to an eventual betrayal. Tiago's touch all too suddenly feels violating and James has to physically restrain himself from tearing away. 

“Does that feel good, James?” His companion asks, and his answering shudder seems reply enough. Tiago reads this positively and hums his approval too close to James' ear. 

A gulp of cold water soothes the burn of the bile climbing up his throat. 

James has never felt so close to self-combustion but when a simmering heat spreads horrifying into his groin, he feels like striking the match himself. 

The unmistakable swelling sans stimulation confesses the depth of Tiago's depravity because tainting the ice in his water was the last thing he'd expected. 

James laughs incredulously.

“Forgive me, I'm going to have to excuse myself after all,” he admits pulling out of Tiago's grasp. 

His companion's eyes widen for a moment before narrowing suspiciously. They dart down to the tent in his trousers. 

“Are you really so unwell?”

James does nothing to hide himself. 

“Not so much unwell as...unfit.” 

“Unfit for company?” Tiago asks shrewdly. 

“I certainly wouldn't impose.” 

He watches the man chew on this. 

“It would be no imposition.” 

“As genuine your sentiment,” James says nearly choking on the word, “I really think getting my head down for a kip might be just the ticket.” 

Clawing desperation to escape chases him out though he feels Tiago's eyes like red hot pokers burning holes through his back the entire way. 

–


	14. Chapter 14

Tiago is as shaken as his shaking hand when he inserts the needle. 

It misses the vein but he doesn't realize this before he's already injecting himself subcutaneously and it hurts like a motherfucker as the poison floods through his arm like a swarm of stinging wasps. When the blast misses ground-zero it half-lifes the bioavailability and relief permeates in the fallout, but there is no immediate gratification. 

A bit of ice still remains melting in James' abandoned glass on the nearby table. Tiago picks it up, aligning his fingers to the imprints of James' in the condensation and lifts it to his lips, kissing the mark leftover from his mouth.

Eventually, he presses the cool glass against his inflamed skin, cradling it within the crook of his elbow. Little rivulets of moisture drip down his fingers damping a ritornelle of spots across his thigh. He watches as the dark shapes spread, connecting strangely to resemble a pointed-petaled oleander. Tiago feels just as poisonous. 

Last night, James had opened his arms and Tiago had crawled into his lap. The kiss they'd shared lingers on his lips still, buzzing warmly from the vivid memory. Their coupling had been so passionate, so intense and liberating, it was unlike anything else he'd ever experienced. 

No high could ever parallel the absolute nirvana he'd touched as James touched him and whether he meant to lay claim or even wanted to keep it, he made Tiago his and he's past the point of no return. 

Sliding down into his chair, he groans at the memory of James driving deep inside of him. 

It had hurt as he'd torn, the pain had shot up his spine like an electrified knife, but It was a transformative sort of pain as pure as poetry. 

Afterward, he'd staggered them both back to James' room. He went through the usual routine of cleaning and redressing the man to hide the evidence and when this task was complete, he crawled into the bed beside him. Tiago untangled the sheet at the foot of the bed and pulled it over them both before tucking behind James, molding himself against his warmth. As he lay there, holding him, it took everything he had not to weep into the back of his neck because it was a torment knowing he had to steal this moment; that it wasn't freely given; that James would wake and never know.

James would never know because he didn't want to know. 

When he knew that lingering any longer would be dangerous, he reluctantly unwrapped his arms from around his sleeping companion and James' small, bereft, unconsciously uttered complaint nearly froze Tiago in his tracks. 

Leaving him took everything he had but at last, he willed himself up, tucked the sheets back around James and crept out of the room.

He can't remember how long he hesitated just outside his closed door, his hand upon the knob, trying to keep from going back in. 

Later, in the shower, the faint smell of copper and bleach lingered in the steam as blood and semen leaked out of Tiago, streaming down the inside of his thighs. He watched it swirl red across the tile before spiraling down the drain in a hypnotizing eddy. Inspecting himself for damage he discovered a scattering of finger-shaped bruises marking his hips he wished he could keep. 

Before M got her claws into him, back in the days when Tiago ran rough and strayed along the fringe there was a girl he no longer has a name for. One drunken night as they lay entwined in someone else's sheets, she gave him his first tattoo and taught him the craft because they were young and pretended to be in love. He scrawled his initials into her thigh and learned the beautiful permanence of ink beneath skin and thinks if ever there was anything so precious to preserve it would be the visible proof of a lover's claim. 

It's as romantic an idea as it is desperate because he knows now that he's spoiled everything with James, these marks will fade and there will be no others. 

The rift that divides them spans galaxies apart. 

He was a fool to miss the first sign, he didn't so much as blink when James turned down breakfast, sure it was a minor set back, but he could always make up for it later.

But then, when later came and James turned down the offered fix, suspicion began to bloom. 

Then there was the lack of expected response to the laced drinks. Though he had made an admirable attempt to deceive Tiago, James' eyes are too light to hide the size of his pupils and no dilation meant his philodendron was probably going to need re-potting if the sodden soil was anything to go by. Clearly, James' method of drink disposal held no consideration for plant life. 

If the situation was less tragic he'd almost think it was funny. 

He had craved so much for the illusion of intimacy to be real he'd become arrogant, complacent, inexcusably careless. He's forgotten just how clever his spy could be when his head was too clear. 

In retrospect, punishing James for his own failure was nothing short of foolish, Tiago can't help but think his guilty subconscious was the misleading voice that led him to condemn himself. He knew James would doubt he'd go so far as to tamper with a little innocuous-looking glass of water. 

He was right. But the cost of being right is high because Tiago knows this signed his confession. 

James' door is closed to him. 

But, though the door is closed, Tiago keeps open the windows. 

This is what compels him upward and lures him down the hall to his private office. 

He closes himself into the small, hot room whirring with machines with a swell of anticipation and sweat beading across his forehead, dripping behind his mask. Flipping on the monitors, he seats himself and pulls up the view of James' room and at first, Tiago fails to locate his quarry. Panning the camera across the room he scans the scene with growing trepidation. 

Across the floor is a scattered mess of shattered glasses, upended furniture and a lamp flickering on it's side. He draws in a breath as his eyes come to rest on a lonely figure half-hidden by shadow. James is curled in on himself, sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed. 

Zooming in, he sees the man's tense, agonized expression, observes the way his clenched hands are braced upon his knees in a white-knuckled grip of self-restraint. 

Compelled by an invisible force, James at last surrenders to his urge and fumbles open his pants to pull himself out. The second his hand closes around his swollen cock, his face twists into something between ecstasy and self-loathing.

It hurts to see but he can't look away. 

There is a frantic desperation about the way James pumps himself into his fist as if he's unwillingly enslaved to his need like a bitch in heat. 

The sight is so erotic Tiago can't help but crank up the volume of the audio. Through his speakers, James' breathy moans suddenly envelop the room and immediately Tiago feels the blood rush down, filling him between his legs. Clutching himself through the bunched fabric, he watches the spy work himself for a few more good seconds before he's tearing open his own fastenings and matching pace. 

About a minute in, James unexpectedly slows and releases himself. His cock bounces against his belly and he pulls himself upward, kicking off the pants tangled around his feet. Tiago's hand slows in its effort and he leans forward, watching curiously. 

The spy seats himself upon the edge of his bed and shifts himself up until his back is resting against the headboard before removing his shirt in one, swift motion. He flings it carelessly away and splays open his legs conveniently facing the camera. 

Tiago's mouth goes bone dry as he watches the blonde run his hands along his body. It looks like he's imagining the worshipful touch of a lover only he can see and his back arcs as his palms glide from sternum to navel in a way Tiago suddenly recognizes mirrors the exact path his own hands have so often journeyed down. 

Then, a moment later, for just a fleeting second, blue eyes flit up toward the camera. It's a dead give away and Tiago has proof now that he's the phantom James has inserted into his fantasy, but he's done so intentionally-- not for his own benefit. 

When James looks back up for the second time, he doesn't look away again.

This display is deliberate. 

James' smile is coy and provoking. His eyes glitter darkly and his gaze is so direct, it feels as if it's piercing through the pixels. 

Hooked, Tiago groans as the blonde's hand slips back between his legs to palm down the length of his erection, blatantly teasing his voyeur. He languidly strokes himself, gliding a thumb in a circle around his flushed, gleaming head and once in a while, tosses in a practiced twist to vary the experience. It's almost more than Tiago can bear to watch.

James is pleasuring himself by proxy, for Tiago; Tiago is denied involvement and forced to watch. 

It's punishment. 

James' fist is a blur of motion between his legs and Tiago is so close to the edge he has to squeeze the base of his cock to delay the approaching end. Then, James is bucking off the sheets and Tiago is drowning in a sea of the blonde's moans spilling out of his speakers. A second later, James' load jets out of his cock shooting over his chest in thick, white ropes and Tiago is coming so hard he nearly blacks out. 

He collapses in a boneless sprawl against the back of his chair and it takes him a good minute before his vision clears enough to refocus back upon the screen. 

James' chest is still heaving and he's glistening with sweat but his eyes are clear and fixed ahead at the camera with a determined expression. Deep creases frame his lips which are pressed together in a thin, stern line of controlled anger. Tiago's heart is heavy as lead as he waits, and almost a whole minute passes before James decides to speak. 

“We need to talk,” he informs him succinctly. 

The words echo in Tiago's ears as James leaves the frame. He hears the latch of the bathroom door as it shuts before turning off the monitor. 

The show is over.

Tiago doesn't remember taking off his mask, but his reflection stares back at him, hollow and hideous and he can't take looking at himself for one more second. If he never saw himself again it would be too soon. 

Flipping off the lamp, he enshrouds himself in the safety of the dark. For so long he was afraid of it for the nightmares he knew it would stir awake inside his mind, but now he knows it's where he belongs; among the rest of the monsters and beasts and ugly things the world wants to hide. 

He should have known better than to try and drag the sun into shadow because to do so is to shine light upon that which lurks within it's depths.

When the full extent of what he's about to lose finally hits, he breaks. 

\--


	15. Chapter 15

In the aftermath of his performance, James feels utterly depleted; there is a sort of empty void instead where he thinks anger or despair probably belongs but he has no energy for it. He isn't tired exactly, but he imagines he could sleep for days if he closed his eyes. 

After he showers, James wipes the steam off the mirror and combs back his hair. He looks at his reflection and when he's finished, auditions a generic, charming smile. It's convincing because this is what he's been trained to do. 

He dresses himself on autopilot and limps into the living room and can hear Tiago moving about in the kitchen. The sound of pots and pans clanking together soon gives way to the smell of supper cooking on the stove. James doesn't have much of an appetite but he does pour himself a full glass of undiluted brandy. 

His glass is empty by the time Tiago clears his throat to announce their meal. 

They make eye contact for the briefest moment as James seats himself at the table and his companion doesn't so much flinch away as bow his head, avoiding direct eye contact as he prepares their plates. 

There is an undercurrent of tension in the air; a shared sort of reluctance. Slowly, James takes a bite of paella, his eyes trained on the man across from him poking at his plate looking every bit as disinterested in the food as he is.

He observes his companion will himself to eat and the pretense is so strained it's almost painful to watch. 

James pushes aside his plate and lights a cigarette and Tiago finally admits defeat, pushing away his own meal to join him, lighting one for himself. For a few minutes they continue to smoke, neither looking directly in the other's direction. 

“I think it's time we stop playing pretend,” James says, breaking the awkward stretch of silence. 

Tiago cocks his head with guileless confusion.

“I don't take your meaning." 

“You must think I'm incredibly stupid.” 

Tiago butts out his cigarette. “You know that's untrue.”

Exasperated, James combs his fingers back through his hair with an unimpressed sigh and looks across the table at his companion. 

“Do me the courtesy of dropping the act, Tiago.”

“If you could specify what it is I'm doing that offends you, I'll attempt to correct the behaviour,” the man retorts, frowning at James as he lights a second cigarette.

“I know you were watching.”

Tiago takes a long drag, and James watches the tendrils of smoke drift out through his teeth as the dark-haired man looks up at him with a peculiar, off-putting grin. 

It feels like a challenge. Antlers lock in a vie for dominance and the air between them charges with a danger he can almost taste; metallic as winter. 

“Don't you dare deny it,” James warns in a low, threatening tone; the words cut sharp, cold and quick like liquid nitrogen. 

Tiago's expression is unreadable as he clicks his nails against the smooth plastic mask over his chin. 

“I can't deny an accusation I don't understand,” he answers slowly, response measured and a little too careful. 

“You've been watching me,” James explains, “You installed a camera in my room. I know it's there. In the vent.” 

“You'd fault me for monitoring your safety?” Tiago asks, his mouth curling down in a hurt little frown. His eyes, however, belie his lips; glittering mockingly at James in amusement. 

“Always ready with a convenient lie.” 

Tiago's nostrils flare with a sharply indrawn breath as the barb strikes. 

“What exactly are you insinuating, James?”

“I doubt you need me to spell it out for you.”

Tiago's responding smirk is irritatingly insolent. “Whatever intimate activities you get up to in your own time are none of my concern.”

“So you admit you were watching.” 

“Are you referring to a specific incident?” 

James' lips press together scornfully. 

“If you engaged in a 'private moment', James, with the assumption that I would be monitoring, it leads one to infer that this display of yours would have been intentional,” Tiago counters. “And that, my friend, of course leads to an interesting question, if this was, hypothetically, your intent, one must wonder exactly what message you were attempting to convey.”

Tiago rests his cigarette in the notch of the ashtrays' rim before steepling his fingers in front of him and leaning forward with a curious glint in his eye. “Should it be interpreted as an invitation, a confession or an accusation?” 

James grinds his teeth. “What do you imagine I might be accusing you of?” 

“My mind is a blank,” he replies airily. 

“I'm sure you can hazard a guess.”

“I could, but then, I prefer to avoid hazards when I can help it,” Tiago parries, unruffled, “Besides, why should I steal your thunder? Or is it that you're too shy to spell out this ambiguous crime I've supposedly committed?”

James' heart jumps into his throat. “Interesting that you should leap to the word 'crime'. Freudian slip?”

“Careful, my dear,” Tiago warns, “You wouldn't want to say anything you might regret.”

“I regret much when it comes to you, I doubt anything else will be of further burden.”

“My, my, that is some spite!” Tiago laughs, shaking his head, “Surely my hospitality hasn't been that disgraceful?”

James smirks. 

“Disgraceful is a really applicable word for you, I think.” 

“As long as we're parsing words, ungracious is a term quite befitting for you at the moment,” Tiago counters. 

“Forgive me,” James sneers, “If I haven't shown the proper level of gratitude for your dedicated care.”

“I don't much care for your sarcasm,” Tiago scowls, “You know, I think of myself as being a relatively reasonable man, but you're walking a very thin line here, my friend.”

“I think you and I have a very different definition of the word 'friend',” James bites out, “'Prisoner' seems a bit more accurate, wouldn't you say?”

Tiago's expression darkens. “Mister Bond, I think you lack a proper basis for comparison if you truly think yourself a prisoner.”

The weight of this remark settles heavily in the pit of James' stomach. For a moment, his anger simmers back, replaced by sympathy, guilt. 

“You may as well get on with it,” Tiago prompts, “What's the charge, officer?” 

“Spare me, Tiago,” James sighs, sweeping his hands down his lap beneath the table before looking determinedly back at his companion, “I don't have to say it.”

There is a deep ache inside as he finds his next words. 

“You know what you've done to me.” His voice cracks on the last word and he breaks eye contact, losing his courage. The urge to flee is strong, but James' drive to receive closure resolves him to see this through. 

“I know what you're implying,” Tiago sighs, “The camera, the drugs-”

“Which you broke your promise on,” James interjects. 

“It aids your case,” Tiago concedes, retrieving his cigarette and ashing it before taking a long drag. “You got me in quite a catch-22, James. Regardless of what I say, whether I confirm your suspicions or deny them, I'm damning myself in your eyes.”

James pulls a hand down his face before gazing across the table at his companion.   
Tiago looks more exasperated than guilty, and for the first time since he initiated this confrontation, his certainty begins to waver. 

“I had a very interesting dream last night about fucking you,” he states matter-of-fact and the corner of Tiago's mouth curls up in amusement. 

“I hope it was at least pleasant for you.” 

James doesn't deign to reply. 

“How am I supposed to respond to this, James? What would you like me to do? Confirm that it really happened? Is that what you're hoping to hear?”

“No,” James answers honestly, “I'm dreading it.” 

Tiago deflates at the admission before looking back at him with a self-deprecating grin. “The thought of us together is that revolting?” 

“The deception involved is,” James clarifies. 

“What reason do you have for your doubt that this wasn't just some dream?” Tiago asks butting out his cigarette, “Or, are you indirectly asking me a question?”

“It was a bit coincidental that just this morning you happened to catch a limp, Tiago. I'm no doctor but I'm fairly certain that's not contagious,” James points out, “And I know I don't exactly pack economy.” 

Tiago huffs a small laugh. “Braggart.” 

James shrugs and pulls two more cigarettes out of the pack. He sticks them both between his lips to light before passing one across to his companion. 

“Perhaps I've been in error to give you so many drugs,” Tiago muses, between puffs, “It's really done a number on your head by the sound of it. Your shaky grasp of reality is concerning.” 

James concedes to himself that Tiago does make a valid point. 

He can't help but consider how much easier it would be to simply believe his host. Tiago is his friend, and yes, he's made some mistakes, but to commit such a serious violation seems maybe a little far-fetched. 

“It does sound sort of paranoid doesn't it?”

“It's a serious accusation, James,” Tiago points out, leaving the sentence open-ended. Chewing on the side of his thumb, James relapses into silent reevaluation. After a moment, he looks back up at the man across the table and tries to see the predator, but instead, he sees someone hurting and trying very hard to not let it show. 

“I think I was just confused,” James admits finally, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his sleeve. 

“Forgiven and forgotten, my dear,” Tiago comforts, patting James on his shoulder as he gets up to clear away their dishes, “And for my part, I'm sorry I broke my promise to you. I don't expect you to trust me for awhile, but I hope in time I'll regain it.”

James distractedly watches as his companion deposits the plates into the sink. 

“I also hope now that we're past this we can work to mend our friendship,” he continues, returning to the table to collect the glasses, “You mean a great deal to me, James. I think you know that.” 

When he reaches across to retrieve James' unused mug, his shirt stretches, exposing the base of his neck just long enough for the spy to catch the dark purple bruise above his collar bone. Instantly, James remembers the exact way his lips had fit so perfectly over that very spot when Tiago rocked their cocks together in his fist. 

For a moment, time just sort of stops and James' heart seizes in his chest. He clamps a hand over his racing heart and closes his eyes to reclaim his sense of equilibrium. 

The cruel joke is that James had, for a few minutes, really believed Tiago. 

When he opens his eyes, Tiago has already straightened up and is holding the mug in his hand but is frozen in place, staring at him quizzically with a worried frown.

James shakes his head chuckling darkly as he looks up at the liar. 

“You know, Tiago, I hear Prada designs a nice line of scarves that would be just your taste,” he tells him, “You should really look into getting one.” 

Tiago's mouth opens, but whatever he was about to say dies on his lips as the meaning dawns on him. There is something desperate in his eyes like a fox caught in a trap. He looks ready to chew off his leg to escape, but to his credit, he stays though he knows he'll be skinned alive. James watches his distress descend into mortification with callous triumph. 

“Honestly, Tiago,” he says, the name dripping like ice from his tongue, “It's not a badge if you had to steal it.”

Tiago's face is an ashen, blank slate of no discernible emotion. He turns around, sets the mugs in the sink, and walks out of the kitchen. James staggers out of his chair, grabs his crutch and hobbles after him. 

“We're not done here,” he calls at Tiago's back. This stalls him.

He doesn't exactly turn back around, but his hand settles on the back of the sofa and he angles himself half-receptively, waiting. 

“This isn't something you can run away from, I'm not going to conveniently forget this, Tiago. The best bet you have to avoid this conversation is to toss me out or kill me.”

Tiago turns around fully at this to stare him down with piercing dismay. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to apologize?”

James blinks. “That would be a start,” he huffs, lowering himself down on a chair. Tiago paces around the sofa and sits down across from him. 

“I regret hearing you say it was stolen,” Tiago says, undoing the top buttons of his shirt to pull down his collar. When he looks back up at James, his face glistens with a thin sheen of sweat. “You seemed to give it rather freely at the time,” he defends, his tone bitter and brittle as he points at the exposed mark on his throat, “You certainly never once told me to stop.” 

“Are you mad?” James demands incredulously, “You drugged me. That's not consent.”

“Does it escape your memory how many times you've begged me for the needle? Or have you just conveniently forgotten how many times you've begged me to fuck you?” Tiago's words cut into James and his training escapes him.

He could be bluffing, but he's planted a seed of doubt and it's more than enough to render the intended damage. When he thinks back, his disjointed, drug-addled memory doesn't disprove what Tiago has implied. 

James feels like he's been sucker-punched. 

“You fucked me?” he asks fearfully, too overwhelmed to hide his distress. 

What he didn't expect was that this was the ticket to derail the man. The question hangs in the air between them as Tiago's eyes rake over James with a desolate, wretched sort of agony before dropping to stare at his hands clutching his knees. 

“No,” he replies brokenly, “No, James, I've never.” 

“Maybe you haven't gone that far, but you've done other things-- there were other times,” James insists, desperate for confirmation. “My memory is patchy, a lot of it almost seems like a dream or half made-up.” 

Tiago grimaces, visibly pained by James' revelation.

He looks like a shadow of his former self, completely depleted of confidence. 

It's a struggle for James at first to reconcile him with the same man whose saved his life and dug him out of jams on countless occasions, who he's cooked and read with, who has kept him occupied with games and designing, debates and chores, who nursed him back to health and often made him laugh, who he's often thought of kissing for being brilliant and handsome in spite of his scars and really, if he's honest with himself, maybe partly because of them. He might have been the one exception to the rule. 

He doesn't quite know any other way to frame what he's come to feel, but James accepts that falling in love with Tiago is the most apt way to explain it. 

The man is damaged and beautiful and terrible and he aches when he looks at him. 

“The truth,” James says, “That's all I'm asking.”

Tiago nods sullenly. 

“I can give you that,” he sighs, “You weren't dreaming, there have been other times. But I've never taken anything from you before last night. I-- I slipped.”

Tiago's face twists with despair as he gazes across at James with watering eyes, “I've never wanted anyone or anything so much as you, you understand. I didn't mean to take it so far. I just wanted the one time. Just once-- to touch you, and then when I did, that first time... it was sort of an addiction, you know? I couldn't stop.” 

The confession doesn't feel worth the price. James feels gutted and torn in two ways: he could just as easily murder him as gather the man in his arms. 

“I wish I didn't know,” He says out loud, half to himself. 

Tiago loses himself to his grief and bows his face into his hands; his shoulders shake but he cries quietly and James heart clenches inside his chest. 

This man manipulated, betrayed and violated him on repeated occasions, but James finds he's suffering more by restraining his impulse to forgive. 

In reflection, James is almost embarrassed by how readily he received Tiago, always with the open arms of an ardent lover, grateful for the affection; starved for his touch. He knows it's unhealthy that he doesn't regret it, regardless of how their intimacy was always disguised in a triad of drugs, dreams and denial.

Tiago's galling selfishness of asking for trust while repeatedly breaking it when he gave so little of his own in the first place is the reason James stays seated. 

“If I mean so much to you, then why were you happy to let me suffer the belief I was losing my mind?” he asks. Tiago raises his face from his hands and his cheeks are tear-streaked, his eyes wet and red. 

“I regret it. I only wanted to protect you, even if I couldn't from myself,” he explains, sniffing miserably, “Which is why I never wanted you to know what I'd done.” 

“You took, but you never asked me. Well, in any way that counted,” James amends. “Why?”

“All the obvious reasons. Look at me,” Tiago points out, “Besides, you made it fairly obvious you didn't want me.”

James shuts his eyes and sighs. “You've wrecked havoc inside my head, Tiago, I don't know how much of what I feel is organic and how much you've groomed into me, but had you bothered to ask, there is a chance I might have.”

When he opens his eyes, Tiago is staring at him utterly gobsmacked. He looks like his common sense is battling to hold back a tiny bubble of hope. 

“Past tense,” James clarifies for his edification. The hope dissolves and Tiago visibly collapses with it. 

James wasn't prepared for this. He expected a blowout resulting in heated argument, maybe fists, maybe guns, maybe furious, hate-fucking. He's immensely uncomfortable with the emotional collapse he's now unhappily witnessing unfold. 

There is an instinct to rescue Tiago and James grasps the irony of that. 

Driven by the compulsion, he limps across the short distance and seats himself beside Tiago ignoring the man's bewilderment. 

There is no plan to go by, he's working fully from his gut here, and it tells him to salvage. 

James knows this is inadvisable for far too many reasons, but he can't say what Tiago deserves or doesn't deserve and he knows what he's doing is not what either of them had expected but right now, he feels like one half of a live, snipped wire. James can practically see as much as feel the split sparking between them. He longs for a reconnect. 

He needs the contact. 

James places his hand over Tiago's and interlocks their fingers. His companion's hand trembles inside his own and he squeezes it reassuringly, saying nothing, avoiding the man's curious eyes. 

He doesn't want to explain himself and he can't predict what will happen.

James figures they were at one time, like two solitary planets bumped into the same orbit, they synced into a magnetic physicality and were always destined for eventual collision. 

Tiago's touch grounds him as much as it grounds Tiago. There is a fissure between them with no easy fix to bridge the gap but James thinks he might try to anyway.

He may have lied when he said his feelings were past tense. 

Wanting Tiago is an inevitable condition at this point. 

“Let me see you,” he asks, turning to look at the man sitting next to him. He can't figure out exactly why he needs this, but it's suddenly important to James. All he knows is that he feels stripped bare and he needs Tiago to take off this last barrier standing between them. 

He complies, albeit reluctantly, removing his hand from James' and reaches up to unfasten his mask. 

When it's removed, he sets it in his lap and turns fully toward James, facing him for the first time, without anything in the way. 

Tiago's damage is extensive and utterly exquisite.

James can't help but run his fingers along the newly exposed skin, mapping the scars. Tiago's eyes shutter and he moans quietly, leaning into his touch.

Reverently, he trails over the ruin to trace the curve of his mouth. 

There is a moment's hesitation as he searches Tiago's eyes, seeking permission because permission is something he might need to teach by example. 

He finds it easily granted and leans forward, capturing Tiago's lips with his own. James kisses him deeply, learning the lover he'd known and hadn't realized.

The connect is a transport and in the shared experience of it, in this single moment, is redefining.


	16. Chapter 16

“Don't leave me,” Tiago pleads against James' lips as he pulls out of their kiss. 

Expelling a sigh, James closes his eyes.

Leaning against him, foreheads pressed together sticking with sweat, Tiago strokes his fingers through the spy's damp hair before wrapping around the back of his neck. 

James utters a small, brittle chuckle and removes Tiago's hand without releasing it. Instead, he smoothes his thumb over the top of the man's trembling knuckles to reassure him, without words, that at least for now, he'll stay. 

It's with a strange sort of half-tired, half-subconscious instinct that he realizes he's spent the last few minutes just sort of ghosting his lips over Tiago's mouth in a gentle meandering graze. When Tiago fails to meet the natural invitation half-way, James draws back and regards his companion curiously. 

Tiago briefly meets his eyes with a sad sort of raw, open longing before dropping his gaze to his lap where James notices his fists are clenched tightly in his lap. 

“To ask this of you,” Tiago struggles out, “Is unfair.” 

His eyes shut in misery as he weakly tries to collect his quickly disintegrating sense of control, but the broken quivering tone betrays his failure to recover it. “I'm at your mercy, and you have every right to ask me to let you go.”

James heart sinks. These words grant him a way out and selfishly, guiltily, he wishes the choice was still out of his hands. It's irresponsible to decline, but he respects the offer, because after all, he didn't have to, James realizes, and it's a brave move which returns to Tiago the dignity the situation would otherwise strip him of. 

If he stays with him now, it will be his own decision and whatever they become to one another will be free from the burden of inequality. 

“That isn't what you want,” James replies. 

“It's not about what I want,” Tiago points out, “It's your choice and it's a freedom I regret denying you.”

“But you want me to stay.” 

Tiago's eyes close in defeat. 

“There's nothing I want more,” he admits quietly. 

Bracing himself for the rejection he seems to think is inevitable causes Tiago to startle back with a small flinch when he feels James fingers gently settle under his chin. 

“I'll stay,” James hears himself saying, the promise escaping him before his brain can catch up. 

There is a long pause where he has to replay the words to internalize the reality of what he's just spontaneously committed himself to, and the openly skeptical, utterly floored expression on Tiago's face is convincing enough proof for James that the invisible contract has been verbally signed. 

Following the shock is a moment of blank confusion before he's tripping over himself in a second-guessing panic because retraction is hardly viable and this was never the plan, but, all it takes is one, single look at Tiago to kill the thought in it's genesis. The tiny flicker of hope in the man's eyes catches James' deep behind the ribs and leaves him breathless with the excitement of realization: 

He's without regret. 

Buzzing on the high, James hand wanders up from Tiago's chin back to his curious exploration of the scattered, fascinating collection of angry scars he's been given privileged access to. He finds the destruction beautiful in a way he can't explain to himself, and preoccupied by this thought, it takes a second to realize the dampness on the tips of his fingers are from tears slipping unbidden from the corners of his companion's tightly shut eyes. Tiago gasps when James' fingers are replaced with lips and it's obviously more than he can handle because he's suddenly pulling away and shaking his head. 

“Is this pity?” Tiago demands with a note of bitterness and fear.

“Is that why you'd stay with me? With this?” He continues, with a wave at his face, “If it is, then just ask me to let you go. Let me scrape up whatever I have left of my pride and tell me honestly. You don't owe me to stay.”

“I don't pity you, Tiago,” James quickly assures, “And if either of us owes anything to each other, I think the scales are rather tipped in my favour.”

The truth chastens every bit as it humbles and Tiago lowers his chin, bowing his head in deferment. It's a gesture of submission; an offering of contrition. 

When he at last meets James gaze, it's with a renewed steadiness, calm and self-assured. 

“Alright,” Tiago replies simply, accepting James' answer as formally as he would in the conclusion of a business matter. “But if you change your mind, for the love of god, please tell me.”

James laughs exasperated and fond, shaking his head because really, what can you say to that, and grabs the man by the collar of his shirt, yanking him forward into his arms. Thrown off by the force of his momentum, Tiago ends up wrapped around James out of reflexive alarm and there is an awkward moment of confused repositioning where they both try to find comfortable purchase, and then, they do, and they're hugging, and it's a bit of a deviation from expectation, but James can't remember the last time holding a person like this was better than kissing them senseless.

Tiago melts against him, burying his face into the curve of his neck and his breath is warm through the collar of James' shirt. Where their chests are pressed together, he can feel the way Tiago's heart pumps powerfully against his own. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose and relishing the intimacy of the warm air shared between them, Tiago is whispering to James in his native tongue, and frankly, omnigot as he is, James is rusty in this one, but the tone is sweet and the syllabic hum of 'Eu possa me dizer do amor, que não seja imortal, posto que é chama, mas que seja infinito enquanto dure.' is alluring and melodic and by the time he's finished, James thinks he's just about sussed out the translation: 'I can tell myself about the love, let it be not immortal since it is a flame, but let it be infinite while it lasts.'

“Você está na minha cabeça o tempo todo,” James replies slowly, hoping his conjugation is better than his accent. 

“You are,” he continues honestly, “always in my head... in my mind.” 

Tiago's eyes close as their mouths meet. 

“I'm yours,” James whispers against his lips, and then they kiss.


	17. Chapter 17

In a daze of infatuation and lust, James somehow manages to lead them both back to Tiago's bed in a stumbling journey of clumsy kisses and wandering hands that lands them in the sheets in a tangled mess of limbs and laughter. 

Joy snags its hook behind Tiago's ribs, catching his breath when he catches the matching glimmer of easy, genuine delight in James' eyes. Sprawled invitingly across the sheets, he stretches beneath him like a cat in the sun, nearly purring as Tiago's hands sweep down the length of his belly, taut muscles fluttering beneath his touch. 

A sweep of lips across James' throat locates the thrum of his pulse and he mouths the tender spot until the blonde is lifting his hips in an effort to bring attention to his throbbing arousal, hot and hard through his trousers where it's shoved against Tiago's thigh. A small shift lines them together and finding the perfect rhythm to grind against each other shoots toe curling endorphins through every cell of his being in tendrils of sparks that make his nail beds vibrate and his eyes roll back into his head. 

“What are you?” Tiago murmurs wonderingly, “what have you done to me?”

“That's a good question,” James agrees, “Ironically, I was going to ask you that.” 

There is a cheeky tone in the mirrored sentiment, and there is something in his partner's expression that is not exactly uncomplicated, but pure and smoldering and affectionate and unforgettable. 

“I have to be imagining you,” Tiago muses, ruffling the man's short, sweaty spikes while rubbing small circles into the back of his scalp.

“Mm, I can prove you wrong,” James smirks, twisting a sharp pinch into his side which has the unfortunate reaction of causing a thoughtless handful of blonde hair to be mercilessly yanked in surprise. 

“Ow!” James bellows, “You fucker!” 

“Serves you right, punk,” Tiago retorts, shielding against a spiteful backhand that lands across his bicep in a loud smack. Dodging a predicted ancillary blow, he delivers a playful uppercut that clicks together James' teeth, momentarily stunning the blonde. 

Tiago grins smugly, watching him shake off his shock and is about to pull him down and kiss it all better when James narrows his eyes and smiles in a way that make his teeth look dangerously sharp. 

“You fucking dago wanker, I'm going to murder you.”

“Like to see you try, chav,” Tiago retorts, not at all prepared for the sudden insurgence of James lunging at him with a feral growl. 

He just barely dodges the first flying fist before taking an elbow to the gut with a heavy grunt. In exchange, he throws back a sporting jab that catches his partner below the ribs but the riled blonde barely feels it, springing back with a hard knuckled punch that lands with a crunch against the edge of his jaw, jamming his prosthetic teeth deep into the inner flesh of his bottom lip. 

The coppery blood spilling into his mouth tastes like violence and Tiago yanks James down devouring him like Goya's Saturn, before the blonde tears away, his angry lips stained a shocking red as he spits and bucks like a young, unbroken stallion feeling the weight of his first master. Tiago, enjoying the analogy, kicks his heels into Jame's shins as if he were wearing spurs and pretends to ride the wild force beneath him while the mattress springs groan loudly in protest. 

“Get the fuck off me,” James demands, face hot and twisted into a furious scowl. 

“I think you're trapped, my pet,” Tiago teases, laughter bubbling out of him as James contorts and kicks, determined to toss him off. It takes only a half-a-second before the competitive blonde, speedy and spry, proves Tiago's superior in jujutsu and succeeds in rolling on top of his opponent, pinning him face-down to the bed. 

“Not on top now, are you?” James pants, his breath heavy and wet against his captive's ear. 

Nose smashed into the mattress, Tiago grunts rebelliously and launches a counter attack which quickly fails when James, eager to demonstrate his advantage, locks him in a tight sleeper hold.

Combing his brain for reversal maneuvers, Tiago, hardwired to win, seizes his opening, launches upward, loops his calf around the back of the blonde's thigh and throws all his strength into flipping them, but James, one step ahead, trains him back down by wrapping both of his legs over his own. 

After a repeat attempt to free himself, Tiago is forced to admit he may need to brush up on his technique when he finds himself thwarted by a sharp knee digging into the small of his back, schooling him down to the bed. 

“Submit,” James orders, his command only serving to trigger a rush of adrenaline to surge through Tiago's veins like a brushfire catching a giant downdraft. The ensuing brawl is short-lived when the blonde once again gains the upperhand, strangling him in a trachea-crushing headlock. 

For a few more futile seconds, Tiago desperately tries to pry him off, clawing at the strong arm constricting his airflow until his vision starts to flicker white.

“Jesus, your nails are sharp!” James hisses through gritted teeth, vengefully tightening his hold until his gasping captive is reduced to begging. 

“Air!” Tiago pleads, wheezing his last few breaths and resolving that if he dies he'll probably have to bribe St. Peter into letting him through the pearly gates with a damn good blow job. 

“What are the magic words?” 

“Please?” Tiago tries, oxygen-deprived and trying to be funny. 

“Try again.”

“Urgh!”

“Queen's English, please?” 

“I submit!” Tiago resentfully chokes out before he's at last released and allowed to flip over onto his back to recover. 

After a blurry minute of sucking in enough lung-fulls to return him to a semblance of cognizance, it occurs to Tiago that his conquerer is still perched victoriously on top of him and has begun to grind his ass against his groin in a slow circular, rhythm that is all the more torturous for the fact that they're both still fully clothed.  
His cock, trapped under James, stirs back awake at the friction and Tiago has to bite his already wounded lip to keep from groaning in disappointment at himself for failing to instruct his tailor to provide more give to the fabric of his trousers. 

As if reading his mind, James moves to divest him of his shirt, distracted halfway through his task by Tiago's soft indrawn breath when his knuckles brush behind buttons, grazing a sensitive nipple. 

Curious to test the reaction, he repeats the motion, experimentally rubbing the tip of his finger back across the pert nub, drawing a responsive shudder from Tiago that causes the blonde's eyes to flash dark with arousal. Pulling his hand out from behind the shirt, James balances over him, delaying his exploration with a wicked little smirk that Tiago thinks would make him weak in the knees if he weren't already lying down. 

“Do it again,” he encourages, seductively arching up against James' outstretched fingers. 

Instead of taking the invitation, the blonde's fists seize him by the collar of his shirt and suddenly Tiago finds himself with a mouthful of eager agent. Thoroughly engaging the wily talents of his lover's tongue in a skillful tango with his own loses them both in a clash of teeth and gratuitous moaning loud enough to shame half of Singapore's pay-by-the-hour nightlife. A fumbling hand sneaks it's way between their hips and grips Tiago through his fly. A gentle squeeze and he's jackknifing upward, too close to messing up his far too expensive trousers before he can even get them off. 

Batting away the groping hand and feeling a little Hammurabi's code about the whole affair, he reaches down grabbing a handful of James. Startled by the sudden contact, the agent emits a small high-pitched yelp, and promptly embarrassed, his ears turn a bright shade of red that Tiago can't help but find hilarious. In retaliation, the blonde's mouth latches down hard on his neck in just the right place, nibbling the delicate skin tender, rendering Tiago a mewling, whimpering, boneless mess. When he moves to lap at the hollow of his throat, it's too much and Tiago finds purchase on the back of his shirt, yanks hard, tumbles him down to the sheets and catapults onto his mouth before James can utter his dismay. 

Whatever objections he may harbor dissolve into a stream of muttered invectives as Tiago's tongue traces inside the sensitive whorl of his ear. 

James doesn't play fair and neither does he and it's evidently a rather effective move because immediately the man is reduced to a comfortable state of compliant bliss.

At least for a moment. 

Rapidly coming undone at the seams, James cants upward seeking attention, friction, anything really, but Tiago denies him, taking pleasure in his lover's growing frustration. 

“For God's sake,” James moans, “Fucking move already.” 

Tiago hides his smirk into his lover's unruly locks, pitilessly denying the request and takes his time to slowly appreciate the salty length of James' neck, branding him with his own pattern of souvenirs he'll awake to in the morning. Hands clutch at the fabric of the shirt on his back and his heart hammers madly inside his chest, sputtering with excitement at the way his lover writhes helplessly beneath him with every nip and lick, his plaintive cries shooting straight to his cock.

Wrecked, a little overwhelmed and finally unresisting, James lays open and pliant beneath Tiago when he at last pulls away. Though he longs to rip off his lover's clothing and see the buttons fly, he removes first his damp, wrinkled shirt with reverence, coveting every newly bared bit of skin with his mouth before finally unbuckling his belt and unfastening his trousers. This part he does as carefully as a surgeon performing a delicate operation, unnecessarily lingering over the twitching bulge beneath his fingers as he slowly opens James' fly.

Chancing a glance up at him, he grins at his lover's failing effort to hide his impatience before divesting him the rest of the way of both trousers and pants, tugging them over his ankles and tossing them to the floor. From the foot of the bed, Tiago takes a minute to just gaze at his James' wonderful body. He swallows thickly as his eyes travel to a stop between sculpted thighs parted slightly in invitation and his lover's rigid cock jumps a little in anticipation under the weight of his naked display of appreciation. 

“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” James quips, with a cliché wink that Tiago can't help but roll his eyes at. 

“Shut up, you gorgeous little shit.” 

James laughs and shifts up on his elbows, leering up at him with a toothy grin that on anyone else would not be at all as seductive as he makes it look. “Make me.”

Tiago springs over the bed, pouncing on top of his lover, winding them both with the impact and capturing James' gasp with his lips. 

“Meus deus, but I love you,” he tells him between kisses that make their way across the expanse of his lover's chest before resting his head in the center to listen to the beating heart beneath. Closing his eyes Tiago sighs with pleasure as he feels James fingers wandering up to card affectionately through his hair. 

He doesn't even need to say it back because this in itself is enough. 

Glancing down, Tiago notices the swollen head of his lover's cock peaking out of its sheath connected to his abdomen by a single thread of precum. Shuffling down over James' groin, he buries his nose into the spicy blonde tuft at the base before dragging his tongue up the pulsing length. As he circles the top, lapping him up with tiny little flicks, James' cock weeps even more of his flavor and by the time he's neatly finished, the man is gripping the sheets so tightly he's practically shaking. 

With remarkable self-control, James doesn't spill down his throat the moment Tiago slides back his hood and swallows him down. 

Instead, he pushes him off with trembling hands and pulls him back up. 

With clumsy, frantic hands, his lover undoes Tiago's top two buttons and impatiently tugs the shirt over his head. He can't help but laugh as James struggles at an awkward angle to rid him of his trousers, and honestly, he's quite finished with them anyway. After kicking them off, the spy hastily grabs his wrist and pulls him back up. 

Tiago settles himself over James, relishing the miracle of skin on skin as their hips meet in a satisfying rhythm pressing together their cocks in a sticky slide too near to the finish line.

Moving his hand between them, Tiago grips himself hard at the base to stave off the close-call and once again pulls himself away from a complaining James who collapses back against the pillows with a glare at his wayward partner as he moves his fist down to pump himself. Predicting this, Tiago bats away his hands. 

“Patience, meu querido,” he laughs, reaching into his drawer to fetch his lubricant. 

After closing the drawer he glances back at James, who he feels has gone too silent behind him to discover he's frozen and staring at him with a closed off expression. Tiago's heart skips a beat in a moment of panic wondering if after everything the man has suddenly changed his mind about this.

“What?” he asks quietly, barely above a whisper, “Are you alright?”

James looks pointedly at the bottle in Tiago's hand with a tight frown.

“I'm not-- that's for you, right?” 

Tiago looks down at the oil and sighs, his worst fears put at ease. 

“Unless you're ready to, which I can interpret as a no, from your expression-”

“It's not,” James interjects, flushing hotly. 

Tiago pauses, re-evaluating the conversation in case he's just missed something of importance. 

“I just mean I haven't. Not...” James explains awkwardly, crumpling the bedsheets in his fists and worrying his lip in an endearing manner that creates an impression that he's actually younger and less worldly than he'd like people to think. 

“Not that I wouldn't be willing to try.” 

Two emotions well up inside Tiago at once: surprise and adoration. 

This is followed by reluctance and a measure of guilt he doesn't want to think about right now when James is looking at him like this, with this brave, honest expression. There is something tender, willing and kind there as well, and Tiago can't help but feel a twinge in his gut; a kick in the conscience. 

Scratching the scruff on his chin, Tiago weighs out his next offer carefully. 

“I could go first this time, and you could see how it's done, and then later, if you're up for another round, we could try, but I won't hold you to it.” 

James snorts. 

“Honestly, Tiago, the concept is not exactly foreign to me, nor am I about to scamper off if I don't like it. Unless you don't want to,” he says with a note of challenge, “I'm no blushing virgin.” 

His arousal having slightly abated is, at this, kicked back into gear, full engines on. 

“So you want me to show you the ropes, Mister Bond?” Tiago asks playfully, leaning forward to nibble the edge of his lover's ear. 

“Forget the ropes and just fuck me already,” James shoots back, pulling him down and flipping him back on the bed before climbing on top. 

Tiago, having no need to be told twice, drags his lover back into a deep kiss before rolling him down into the sheets onto his belly, courteously tucking a pillow under his hips to facilitate a comfortable angle for preparation.

Flicking up the cap of the lubricant, Tiago peers across at James silently waiting with closed eyes, his head resting to the side in the nest of his arms. There is a tightness in the muscles of his face belying a modicum of wary self-consciousness which is understandable considering his prone position, but there's also courage and trust and for that, Tiago feels his heart flutter inside his chest. 

Squirting out a generous dollop into his hands and rubbing them together to warm the oil, Tiago starts slowly, first working James' calves before moving upward, gently massaging pliant the tense muscles until he hears his lover sigh, incrementally relaxing as he works his magic. Skimming the tips of his fingers over the twin mounds of James' ass, he feels the blonde shiver slightly, either with trepidation or arousal or a little of both before giving them a quick, playful, teasing little squeeze. With a little pat of apology and a promise to return in due time, Tiago presses his knuckles into the firm tissue above his cleft, kneading between the indented lateral lumbar until James' is purring contentedly.

At last roaming back down to his lovers' bottom, helpfully elevated by the pillow, Tiago palms the warm flesh and spreads his cheeks. He takes a moment to appreciate the view before running the tip of his oil slicked finger tip down the exposed crevice, circling the tiny wrinkled pucker before pushing lightly inside. At the first gentle intrusion, he feels James clench around him and pulls slowly back out changing his strategy. 

Leaning down, Tiago blows softly on the oiled ring, and James utters a quiet gasp of surprise, bringing a smile to his lips. The moment his tongue darts out for a taste, the blonde jumps a little. 

Drawing back to survey the situation, ensuring James is comfortable before proceeding, Tiago observes the tiny goosebumps raised along his lover's back.

“This will feel amazing,” Tiago promises, soothingly stroking his hands down along James' obliques, hoping to put him at ease, “Trust me.”

James nods his head, nervously consenting, his fingers twisted into the sheets in anticipation. 

Once more, Tiago lowers his face between the blonde's thighs and inhales deeply his clean, natural musk before licking a broad path with the flat of his tongue all the way down to his lover's perineum to sample the entirety of his pleasant, spicy signature. Laving around the entrance in slow, wet circles, he feels James begin to pump his hips up and down, emitting tiny moans of pleasure that shoot straight to Tiago's swollen cock, dripping impatiently against his belly down to the sheets. 

After a few moments of flitting his tongue around James in tiny teasing laps, Tiago delves a little deeper, kissing the hole until his lover is sobbing for more.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck me, fuck me, please,” he begs him, too enslaved by lust to care about the words tumbling out of his lips, arching up into Tiago's mouth until he relents, penetrating the agent's hole as fully as his tongue will allow. 

As he enthusiastically eats out James' ass, the man bucks beneath him wildly, forcing Tiago to grip his hips to steady him. He groans louder and louder with every wet swirl and eventually, when Tiago supplies his fingers into the combination, he finds his lover eager to receive every additional digit until he's fucking himself on his hand with wanton abandon. 

Quickly adding a liberal amount of lube to his cock with one hand while keeping James occupied with the other, Tiago lines himself up, preparing for a clean exchange, thrusts forward, and he's in. James sharp inhalation announces some level of distress and Tiago stalls, breathing in slowly, counting backwards to distract himself while allowing his lover to get accustomed to his girth. The sensation of breaching the tight, virgin hole is, in of itself, almost overpoweringly pleasurable to the point of mild discomfort. Stretched around him, the tight squeeze of muscles fluttering as his lover learns how to relax and open to him is humbling, because James is doing it for him and Tiago doesn't take this generosity for granted for even a second.

Slowly, he pushes forward, hot walls of muscle clenching and releasing around him as James accommodates his length. At last buried to the hilt, Tiago stops once more while his lover, inhales and exhales shallowly, adjusting to the new feeling of fullness inside of him.

“How are you doing?” Tiago asks, a little concerned by James' colorless complexion and tiny grimace. With a shaky sigh, the agent hides his face into the bedding and shakes his head. 

“Translation?”

“Just fine,” James mutters tightly, response muffled into the pillow. 

“We can stop,” Tiago offers, praying he won't take him up on it, but James just snorts, raising his head to peer back at him disparagingly.

“Don't be an idiot,” he huffs, straightening his shoulders with a touch of wounded pride, “Just give me a second.”

“Alright, brave soldier, carry on whenever you're ready,” Tiago replies with a soft chuckle, rubbing soothing circles between the blondes' tensed shoulder blades before leaning forward, enabling him to slide his hand down from sternum to groin. When Tiago's fingers close around his lover's slightly deflated erection, still heavy and flopping between his legs, James emits a soft approving sigh, pumping reflexively into his fist and coaxing him into a gentle rocking motion that drives them both further into each other. 

“God, don't stop,” James moans as he's brought expertly back to full hardness, voice dropping to a deep, resonating octave Tiago swears he can feel vibrate around his cock. The sensation stirs in him a primal urge to rut like something wild and uncontained and before he's able to stop himself, Tiago is halfway out and ramming back inside, punching a harsh grunt out of James who can't help but contract hard against the assault. 

Instantly, Tiago pulls out of his partner, mortified by his carelessness.

“Are you hurt?” he demands, retreating off of James, collapsed onto his stomach in a sprawl across the sheets. 

Rolling onto his back, the blonde glares up at him with an exasperated frown. 

“I'm not that fucking delicate,” he huffs with an indignant sniff. “But, you know, I wouldn't mind a little warning next time.”

Relief washes through Tiago as James yanks him back down, silencing his apologies with a rough kiss. 

“Now get the fuck back in me, you tosser,” he orders, wrapping his legs around Tiago's back and forcing him down on top of him. 

“Mm,” Tiago chuckles, “I think I like you bossing me about.” 

“Nngh,” James replies incoherently, tossing back his head with a husky moan as Tiago slides back in. With his lover's legs wrapped around his back, he sets a slow rhythm that quickly picks up pace as James writhes beneath him, cock leaking a mess all over his belly. 

James shoves his knuckles between his teeth and bites down to stifle his keening, his eyes fluttering shut as Tiago reaches between them to stroke him, his fist flying, rapidly driving his lover close to the brink. 

Tiago loves that they're now facing each other; deriving a greater pleasure simply watching his lover's ecstasy than taking it for himself. It's heady knowing he's the cause of it: seeing firsthand proof that he's wanted. However, at the same time, the sight is so incredibly erotic, Tiago realizes quickly that he'll have to train his eyes on something other than the gorgeous man beneath him if he wants to last but after a few stupidly difficult seconds staring at the particularly uninteresting wall above the headboard, it's impossible to keep from returning his gaze back to James. When their eyes meet, his lover's are half-lidded and glazed over with lust and Tiago knows he's close.

Adjusting his angle ever so slightly, he drives in hard and James shouts, raking his nails down Tiago's back, unprepared for the shock of a perfectly aimed thrust against his prostate and then, after the second explosion of pleasure, they're clinging helplessly together, pulling each other over the edge. Tiago shakes apart as he watches his lover come in a torrent of spasms, shooting heavy white ropes between them as his own orgasm rips out of him in waves of mind-blanking bliss. After spilling out the last of his seed deep inside of James, Tiago collapses on top of him, zapped and buzzing in the afterglow.

Considerately finding the strength to roll off of his lover crushed into the mattress beneath him, he drops a heavy arm lazily across the blonde's sticky, come and sweat soaked chest, and collects himself against his side. 

“Meu deus, eu te amo, my James,” he whispers against his ear. 

James blows out a winded breath and tilts his head to the side, meeting his gaze with a sleepy, affectionately ironic expression, combing Tiago's wet bangs off his forehead before kissing him gently.

“I do,” Tiago insists, his heart clenching inside his chest and his stomach in knots, hoping against all hope that he'll hear it back. For the first time since he's said it; the many times he actually said the words or implied it, he desires nothing more than to hear the words returned. 

Instead, James yawns and turns over onto his side, facing the other way.

A lonely few seconds tick by for Tiago as he waits with gnawing anxiety for some kind of response before James, huffing with exasperation, reaches over and grabs his arm, wrapping it around his chest while rolling back over, pulling him in. Tiago, grateful he hasn't been abandoned, but feeling terribly insecure, curls in close behind James, nuzzling the back of his shoulder.

After awhile, when the motion sensors have at last dimmed the rest of the lights and when he thinks his lover has finally drifted off to sleep, Tiago leans forward and brushes a kiss against the back of his neck. 

“I do love you, James,” he repeats in a low whisper he doesn't expect to be heard, "So much more than you can possibly know." 

There's a stretch of silence where James is so still, Tiago wonders for an unsettling moment if the man has somehow suddenly stopped breathing in his sleep and is just about to investigate when he hears a quiet sigh. 

“Old news,” James softly mutters. 

Tiago blinks myopically in the dark at the silhouette beside him and can't for the life of him, think of anything to say to that. 

“But for the record,” he continues in a sleepy drawl, “You too.” 

It's not often Tiago is left so utterly without words, but swallowing thickly he nods against James' back, confirming that he's heard him though he barely can dare to believe he's meant it. 

He thinks though, that James might, and is not terribly surprised to feel hot tears roll down his cheeks at what this means. Breathing in a shaky breath he crowds in as close as he's physically able behind his lover, holding him while crying silently against the back of his neck until sleep at last finds him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your patience, folks, summer has been a little hectic.


	18. Chapter 18

In ancient lands overlooking a vast, rolling terrain where the air tastes of salt and smoke, thick thunderclouds roll in from the west, carrying along with it a heavy, damp wind. Tiago, takes a moment to close his eyes and listen to the gale whistle through the barren hillsides like the primordial wailing of long forgotten gods.

As the setting sun slips behind the mountains, the lingering damp from the mild afternoon finds it's teeth and bites a chill straight to the bone and in the crisp air, Tiago watches as his breath turns into wispy clouds of crystallizing vapor.

He's never really liked these northern climes, and for a minute, nostalgically longs for the temperate yearlong summers of his childhood as he zips his coat and turns up the collar against the wind before cupping his cold hands over his mouth to blow some warmth back into them.

And then, just as he begins to wonder what he's doing here, he feels a tug from deep within, the lure of a shepherding will-o-wisp compelling him to follow the old overgrown path snaking into the valley below.

Traversing his way out of a steep, treacherous outcropping of sloped, weathered rocks covered in a slippery layer of peat moss, the ground softens into a soggy muck that sinks beneath his feet with every step and finally, Tiago enters into a cloak of dense, obscuring fog as he descends into a wide stretch of fen.

The air is heavy here, ripe with the acridly sweet stench of rotting vegetation that leaves a burn in the back of his throat like a good scotch, inspiring Tiago to rest a moment to rifle through his pockets until he finds his wrinkled pack of smokes.

Deftly lipping out his lucky last, he strikes the match and for the spit-second burst, the flame casts a bright halo of light revealing he isn't alone.

As the fire flickers out between his fingers, Tiago's eyes adjust to the ghostly figure of a young boy in the murky clearing, kneeling just beyond a patch of hawkweed beside an old, mangy tom. The wily creature, catching his scent latches onto him with distrustful, glowing eyes and mewls a low, rattling warning to it's companion.

Blue eyes peer up at him and the cigarette, unlit, drops from Tiago's mouth.

He'd know those eyes anywhere.

“Hi,” the boy greets, a little wary, standing up from his crouch. The tom, displeased to be disregarded, darts away into the moor, disappearing into the haze.

“I'm James,” the boy informs, politely proferring his hand.

“I'm Tiago.”

“Oh,” James says, his hand dropping back to his side, “I thought it was you.”

Tiago blinks, surprised by this response.

“You know who I am?” He asks, taking a cautious half-step forward.

James firmly nods. “We're friends, remember?”

Tiago, for some inexplicable reason, finds himself chilled rather than comforted by the reminder.

“Mother and father are on holiday but I have to stay here because I'm packing off to school next week,” James explains glumly, kicking a rock with the mud-coated toe of his shoe.

“You don't want to go?” Tiago asks, picking up his cigarette and checking it over before sticking it back between his lips and lighting it.

James shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets before looking off into the distance. Tiago's gaze follows, and as he peers across the landscape vaguely reminiscent of a Friedrich work in it's rich hues and melancholic sublimity, he realizes, James' childhood homeland is a place he's never been to. A flash second of meta lucidity snaps together the pieces and then, it occurs to him he's dreaming.

“I like it here,” James says softly, no longer a child. Tiago looks at his companion, now fully grown, as he is in life and still feels strangely old in spite of their actual sparse gap in age.

“Why is that?” Tiago asks after a brief stretch of silence, shivering in anticipation of an answer he's already given this apparition of his own contrivance.

“Because I'm free.”

Tiago, hurting, wants to contradict James.

“You belong to me,” he doesn't say because it isn't true.

These last words of the conversation follow when he wakes, though the rest of the dream dissolves. Tiago turns over, reaching up to stroke a stray lock off James' forehead as he softly snores beside him and though he doesn't wake, the blonde responds with a small sigh and tosses onto his side, facing him.

For a few quiet breaths, Tiago simply lays there, gazing upon his sleeping companion lit in the dim glow with an aching heart.

Gently, almost barely touching, he traces over the curve of James' lips before stroking a hand down the length of his side and feels the bare skin, exposed by the sheet that's slipped to just below his hips, slightly cold and raised in goosebumps.

Without disturbing the blonde, Tiago tugs the coverings back up over the man's chest and rolls away, climbing out of the bed as carefully as possible.

After padding quietly into the bathroom and closing the door he braces his hands on the edge of the sink and drops his head with a soft, despairing sigh, feeling the dull throb of a mounting headache before turning on the tap.

Splashing cold water into his face, Tiago looks blearily down at himself, naked and shaking and littered in a variety of colorful bruises received from James in the heat of their rough foreplay only hours earlier and remembers at the end, while buried deep inside as far as he could go, watching in awe as his beautiful lover suddenly came apart in his hands, overtaken in the throws of his powerful release; the way his blue eyes rolled upward beneath the fluttering of long, translucent eyelashes and his red, kiss-swollen lips parted into a trembling moan. How, afterward, just before sleep could claim him, he'd let Tiago know he loved him too.

In retrospect, he knows how good the likelihood is that it was just the potent post-sex high of feel-good chemicals speaking. Additionally, at the time, James was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, while Tiago, anxious to claim some peace of mind, may have been a little too persistent and without consciously intending to, nudged his lover into a precipitous delivery of reciprocation less than wholly heartfelt.

It was enough to pacify, and certainly compelling enough for belief while they were both exhausted.

That he loves James is an indisputable truth now, but it's through hatching the chrysalis into the genuine experience and looking through it's lens that shows Tiago that he was mistaken before.

He didn't love James, he coveted him.

And it was this obsession; this _addiction_ , combined with a concerted effort to manufacture superior leverage over the agent that allowed Tiago to ably manipulate him.

It wasn't always subtle or adeptly machinated, but the end result was an obvious, resounding success, since as far as he could tell, James appeared to honestly believe that he'd independently developed some degree of feelings for his host in return. It was a clear, cut-and-dry, textbook case of Stockholm Syndrome and if Tiago had less shame, or less desire for true reciprocity, he'd shake his own hand for a job well done.

Instead, he felt repulsive; pathetic. What had begun, motivated by cowardice, escalated to the wholly criminal, and to even pretend otherwise would be nothing short of absolute denial.

And he has the feeling that living for any length of time in absolute denial might require more opiate derivatives than it's possible to procure.

Or, to at least keep his heart pumping long enough to enjoy the stolen fruits of his labor.

It doesn't take any sudden burst of clarity to convince Tiago that he needs to fix this fucked up, complicated situation, but for the moment, a feasible solution evades him.

The prospect of convincing prideful, stubborn James that what he thinks he feels is a lie and _oh,_ _he can prove it, too, here, read some Nils Bejerot,_ is not only inconceivable, but excruciatingly painful, and Tiago doubts he has the strength to accomplish such a feat. Then, in the unlikely chance he succeeds, what's next? An offer to start over? A suggestion for couple's counseling?

Tiago snorts bitterly at himself.

No, he and James have no future together; not in any variation of the concept and only he's to blame for that.

If he could turn back the clock, gone about everything differently from the beginning, he might have cemented their friendship and secured him as a business partner or important ally, ensuring James would always be in his life in some way and pined secretly, worshiped from afar, kept his feelings to himself and for himself to deal with.

That would have been the appropriate thing; the safe thing.

And now he has to do the right thing.

Staring across at his reflection in the mirror with a core-gutting, body-dragging dread, Tiago feels an answer creep to the surface from a very dark, shadowy place he knows it's been lurking for some time and instantly regrets looking down that particular rabbit hole.

But, unable to force the idea back into the hell that spawned it, the image of laying beside James as they drift into oblivion, connected to the same IV pumping lethal doses of morphine into their veins, in it's morose way, is hauntingly romantic and a viable option, just not one he can properly entertain without feeling physically ill.

With his lover beside him for eternity burned behind his retinas, Tiago drags his hands down his face and stifles a sob.

He wants to do it with a longing that's nearly impossible to suppress and the internal battle wars in the pit of his gut until he's heaving into the sink and staggering to his knees before the toilet, retching himself empty.

Upon finishing, Tiago collapses against the wall behind him and tries to take easy, slow breaths to fight back residual waves of nausea. Sighing wretchedly, he admits to himself that it certainly would be the simplest fix from a logistical standpoint, and it's not the idea of dying that makes him sick, nor the perpetration of such a selfish act; he's craved it countless times for himself already, but every fiber of his being rebels against taking James out from this world with him.

Not because he feels particularly charitable toward the world, God knows, it owes him several times over, but because he remembers when they were up in the natatorium, the glimmer of happiness he saw in those clear blue eyes as they looked up at the stars, as if he could be one of them.

James Bond burns too bright to be extinguished and Tiago kills the thought.

The alternative solution becomes all too agonizingly clear: he will send the love of his life home and sever all ties.

James will be free and Tiago doesn't hope he'll survive it. Raoul Silva might, but in the end, he doubts he will either.

Opening up his medicine cabinet, he removes a vial of sedative and fills a needle. When he's finished, he quietly pads back into his room and crawls back in bed, slipping under the sheets beside his sleeping lover.

Just the mere ability to refer to him as his 'lover' in his thoughts feels glorious but it's every bit as counterfeit as the love he's tricked his lover into thinking he feels.

Carefully, Tiago feels for a vein in James' arm and finding it, slowly inserts the needle before gently injecting him. The agent doesn't stir when he removes it and casts it aside and in a few minutes, he won't be able to wake for the next 8 hours. In that time, he will be injected with one more round by one of Tiago's men and flown back to London where he'll wake safe and alone in a hotel room under his own name and credit card.

These few, precious moments now will be their last together and suddenly Tiago doesn't know what to do. He wants to say something, many things actually, but he has nothing planned, and he doesn't want to alarm James.

He can't bear ruining their short time together with an altercation he knows would occur should the agent catch on to his plan before succumbing to the sedative.

He expects he'd resist, refuse to be sent away, convinced he's making the decision to stay of his own volition and if Tiago found himself confronted by these appeals, he doubts he'd have the courage to deny James. At all costs, if he is to see this through, he knows avoiding this situation is paramount.

After reminding himself for the upteenth time that he's doing the right thing, Tiago tucks back his storm of emotions and tenderly caresses his lover's face, committing his peaceful expression to memory because his memory of James will be all he'll have to live on when he's gone. Holding in a breath so as not to wake the man, he leans forward, kissing him softly before resting back on the pillow. It's a struggle to keep from crying out his grief, but he's determined to hold himself together, at least until he's alone again.

And besides, he wants to see those wonderful blue eyes one last time.

“James,” Tiago whispers, “Are you asleep?”

The question rouses his weary companion, and James stirs awake, blinking at him groggily with a furrow of confusion.

“Well now I'm not,” he mutters, a touch reproachful.

“I'm sorry if I woke you,” Tiago calmly lies, not the least bit sorry.

"Bet you are."

"Well, maybe just a little," he teases, watching the blonde rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Any particular reason you're up?” James asks, expression level though his tone betrays a faint hint of concern.

“No, just thinking.”

“Why does that worry me?” he asks rhetorically, aiming at him a wry smirk.

“No cause for that, meu amor,” Tiago reassures, rubbing small, soothing circles into the back of his lover's neck. “If you must know, I was thinking about you.”

“Mm, how awful for you. My apologies.”

“Yes, poor me,” Tiago chuckles as his fingers trail up into James' soft, messy tufts of overgrown hair. He imagines one of the agent's first trips back in town will be to the nearest barbershop and then, reminding himself he won't be there to see it leaves a bittersweet knot in his chest. “You're just so hideous and unsexy. What could a catch like me see in a dumb blonde like you?”

James snorts.

“Fuck if I know.”

“Tut-tut, darling, fishing for compliments are we?”

“No, I know I'm perfect,” he retorts.

“I agree,” Tiago says quietly, leaning in to claim a soft kiss as James' eyelids start to droop, a sign the sedative is beginning to take effect.

“Mm, more sleeping, less yammering,” James sleepily directs, snuggling his face back into his pillow.

“One more kiss, meu amor?”

“Mm,” he consents with a small nod, “But then sleep. You too.”

“Alright, me too, my James,” Tiago assures, hiding his torment behind a soft smile before kissing his lover's soft, pliant lips for the last time while he's still responsive enough to return it.

“I love you,” he tells him quietly as he begins to fade.

“Mmhmm,” James mumbles, “love you back.” And then he's out and Tiago is making the phone call.

When he's finished, he tosses his mobile back on the nightstand and collects his unconscious lover into his arms. James' head limply falls upon his shoulder and Tiago cradles him, feeling the dam breaking within.

At last, he lets it.


	19. Chapter 19

When the sun, honoring it's expected trajectory across the sky carves it's path to the apogee, it at last achieves a conducive angle for intrusion.

In a tentative solicitation trickling in through unslanted blinds, rays narrow as slivers paint strips of light across a room, remaining unheeded by the lonely occupant fast asleep in bed, until emboldened by the encroaching noon, they stretch and broaden into an invading conquest, dissolving the last vestiges of heavy sedation. 

Grudgingly, James stirs, and feeling far from awake, squints in groggy resentment at the offending brightness pouring in through the window before slinging an arm over his eyes and grunting out a mumbling plea for Tiago to draw the damned curtains. 

A few moments pass and registering no sign of response; no shift of weight from the other side of the bed, he huffs a beleaguered sigh, peaks out from under his arm, and notes, with some small measure of irritation the sheets beside him are absent and unruffled. James blinks for a moment, baffled, before it occurs to him Tiago has already risen and is putting on the kettle. 

Cursing early-risers as an unnatural sort he can't be arsed to ever understand, he turns his back to the window, kicks off the stifling blanket and begins to drop back to sleep when it occurs to him that underground, there are no windows with sunlight to wake to and the bedding is made up beneath him and smells entirely different. 

The epiphany takes a few seconds to percolate before alarm bells sound in his head, snapping back open James' eyes. 

The immediate confusion is followed shortly by relief when it occurs to him he could be dreaming. 

He's not dreaming. 

Pulse climbing and heart pounding, James' feels his throat constricting with the initial stages of a growing panic he can only recall ever experiencing one other time in his life, many years ago, back in a time when his entire world and all he knew was yet the insular microcosm of the vast, wild moor of his father and his father's father and all their ancestors buried in the valley surrounded by the rolling highlands dense with ancient secrets older than time that Kincaid knew better than the back of his hand and could somehow train up to grow carrots and parsnips and potatoes, where the tall grasses and rocks hid all manner of hidden wonders he could sketch and find in his father's books, the ones he could take from the shelves outside of his study, as what was inside was locked there as all the other treasures and maps his father collected from his travels were; always off limits and not to be touched while he was away. 

So long he'd spend outside exploring, pretending he was with his father on one of his great expeditions or safaris, that the feral but tamed by aged mouser was not a tom but a tiger, that the hunting hounds were wolves and dingos, and the peat bog was the Indian ocean or sometimes lava spilling from the great volcanoes in the pacific isles, and right before dusk, he'd return for supper where he'd be fed up on hearty soup with pheasant pies and pudding and bitter tea and sometimes hot biscuits from cook if he was good and did his lessons. 

Afterward, at the knee of his governess, as old and weathered as the hills she came from where she was raised and raised him on the strange stories from the old religion, where the warm fire flickered from the great, crumbling hearth and the walls covered in threadbare tapestries and mounted with trophies from centuries of hunts boasting impressive racks of antlers cast eerie shadows across the floor that frightened him as he'd think of the beasts and fairies and ghosts that lurked out in the moors at night, but he'd know he was safe, because here in heart of the sprawling wild, inside these ancient walls of his ancient bloodline, sometimes, but not very often, but always on Christmas his father, so tall, urbane and proud and his mother so very pretty, perfectly elegant and incredibly kind would return from their holidays for a few weeks a year, with their arms filled with all sorts of presents and colorful tales of their adventures and the fascinating, important people they danced and dined with at lavish parties he could barely, in his limited understanding even begin to imagine, and these sacred, precious times were suddenly gone forever. 

He was an orphan, which meant he was to be sent off to board year round at academy, and until he was grown, considered the ward of an Aunt he'd never met.

He was to leave Skyfall, his home, the noble land of his father and his father's father and their father's before them and the only place he'd ever known, the only world he'd known for 11 years of his life he was to be taken from. 

After the wake, after receiving condolences from strangers with sad eyes, hollow and cold as the doused hearth, after the housekeepers shut up the windows and covered the good furniture, after governess and cook and the maids were sent off to their new households of good families to look after, with only Kincaide remaining, here to see about the place as caretaker, and finally, when the last of the dirt was shoveled over his mother and father, and they lay forever beneath cold stones with the rest of their bloodline, as James looked, one last time across the moor that final day, he suddenly understood all he had lost and was about to lose; how nothing would ever again be the same and he panicked. He doesn't remember much after. 

When Kincaide finally found him in the tunnel below the manor, when he was led back to the surface, he recalls only that he felt nothing; like cold-cast steel with a hollow core . 

The land he'd loved was barren and ugly and terribly dull, the house, confining and decrepit and though his by birthright and law, was no home at all.

He entered nomadic orphanhood, belonging to nobody and no land with set determination never to be chained to either again. 

But now, James knows again the searing, piercing agony that drove him that first time into the tunnels, and it's with this that he discovers the promise he had made to himself to belong to nothing he'd broken. 

Tiago. Tiago was home. 

And Tiago had ejected, rejected, foreclosed and evicted him.

Without warning. Without explanation.

For several minutes, James realizes he hasn't been breathing; locked frozen with horror and winded with the impact of all that has been suddenly torn from him. 

He gasps when it hits him: maybe something happened, maybe Tiago was in trouble and in his peculiar, maddening way hoped to protect him from it. 

Maybe there was a message or explanation or mobile or contact and he was meant to find it and locate Tiago or wait for Tiago to contact him to let him know everything was taken care of, that he could come back, that he would take him back.

Bolting out of this alien, unfamiliar bed, James scans the room, desperate to find something, anything to explain the situation. Desperate to confirm that his initial conclusion isn't true. Desperate to deny what he's beginning to know after several minutes of frantically disassembling and upturning everything in the room, is exactly what it appears to be.

There is no note. No contact and no explanation either. 

No closure. 

There is a receipt for the room, billed to his card in his name on the dresser. This is all. Nothing else. Oh, and he's in London again, of course. How considerate, all things considered. 

Tiago awoke him last night on purpose, James realizes with gut-wrenching agony, that, and that only, was the only goodbye he would get.

And suddenly, he's angrier than he's ever felt. 

He remembers his training and breathes slowly, calming himself.

On autopilot, he meticulously dresses himself in the new, custom tailored suit hanging for him in the wardrobe and leaves the hotel, flagging a cab to take him to Vauxhall Cross, back to MI6 HQ. 

He will find Tiago come hell or high water and nothing will stand in his way.


	20. Chapter 20

After being MIA for over a month, James checks back into MI6 with surprisingly little fanfare. His briefing is a breeze because his story is solid and simple and selective omission for someone trained to lie isn't anything of a hardship, particularly when supplemented with the additional benefit of hard proof. 

To ensure his easy transition, Tiago, in his ever thoughtful and thorough manner, made sure to provide all the necessary documentation to support the requisite explanation: immediately after eliminating the Henrickson threat in Minsk, while unraveling the con's supplemental ops outside Chisinau, James was captured and transported to a jail in the den of good, old, corrupt Transnistria-- which meant everything would be conveniently unverifiable and convincingly sell both the injuries he'd sustained as well as his inability to check-in over a prolonged absence. 

In a flair of generosity, Tiago also wove in a heroic twist to James' tale which allowed him to rig an escape while simultaneously taking down the rest of the gang. 

Not that M exactly doubted his professional ability to achieve such a feat, only that she doubted his capacity to do so unaided. 

Q-branch is, as anticipated, helpful in backing her suspicions; essentially ratting out 07 for minimal utilization which of course means she's going to ask how he obtained his intel, but James is sufficiently prepared with a believable response and after a week of rigorous physicals and psych evals, he's declared fit for partial duty (which implies a few dreadful weeks behind a desk until his stamina is back to status-quo for active service) and immediately following, reports into M, as directed. 

She sits across the desk from James with her typical stern expression and sharp, calculating eyes that James has steeled himself for. 

He doesn't falter under her scrutiny and gives his alibi: a receipt for £20 G withdrawn in cold hard cash exchanged to it's equivalent in Moldovian Leu, a sum easily written off as a cash bribe, which in actuality, had been Silva's fee, an amount which had been redeposited into an offshore account for James, secret, secure and accruing interest for a rainy day, as promised. 

Reimbursement as well as quick promotion to double-oh is the result of this necessary but dishonorable deception and the former feels like stealing while the latter he's ashamed to receive; a reward earned in his name by the brilliant handiwork of a shadow benefactor. 

The shame of it wounds his pride a little, but James hides it well, accepting the honor as if he deserves it and the gut-gnawing guilt is slightly ameliorated by his bitter prediction that, unprepared as he is, he likely won't last very long as 007 anyway; after all, the life-expectancy is famously rumoured to be rather brief, hence the perks: the pot of gold found on the other side is an expansive range of flexibility with low supervision, a liberal spending account and most advantageous of all, a new, broad-range level of security clearance. It's this last perk he appreciates most in the pursuit of his secret side-project. 

Thus, James has no complaints when HQ limits his activity to four walls and an office chair for the remaining duration of his recovery because he keeps plenty busy. In between paper-pushing and pencil-sharpening, James applies himself to his cause, borrowing a few tricks learned while assisting a real master of the art against the master himself, James knows how to scour the databases and cover his tracks. Sometimes, when he's lucky, every so often he catches the tail end of an occasional, vaguely recognizable thread and intuiting a familiar pattern, hunts his prey with dogged persistence. 

But, every trail, no matter how promising, eventually leads nowhere and empty-handed he gets back up on the saddle and begins again at square one. Days turn into weeks, failure begets failure and eventually, like a dog chasing it's tail, James can't help but sense he's being played. It's disheartening being outwitted at every turn, though, in his own defense, he admits the playing field isn't exactly even. The odds were always going to be stacked against him because Raoul Silva is a canny, slippery professional at the top of his game and he knows that there is no one else on earth who understands him as well as this man does and this kind of insight gives his quarry a strategic advantage because he knows James would never surrender without a fight. 

Unfortunately, he knows he'll probably go down fighting, both of them will, it's in their nature, and at the core, they're not so fundamentally dissimilar. This isn't a game to him, thus, it isn't a game to Tiago and stubbornly, he remains elusive.

A resentful and very logical side of James wishes that if the man was so determined to stay elusive he'd courteously remain so in his thoughts as well, but his dreams are full of the man; his haunting, soulful eyes and the smile he's always known was only just for him. In spite of his desire to forget, he remembers his touch, the warmth of his skin against him, the way they moved together as if they were made for each other. It follows him out of his dreams every morning but the palm of his hand can't begin to recreate the feeling and though he tries to find his outlet in the sheets of strangers or at the bottom of a bottle, nothing works to fill the hollow place that continues to ache inside his chest. 

At times, he longs for the quiet of the needle, but he's screened now, which denies him even this simple solace. 

Worst of all, he remembers, with profound regret, the deep satisfaction of feeling understood, truly understood, and not in that shallow facsimile that others might pretend to, but in the way that stripped him bare. Tiago meticulously and patiently broke through his armour and saw the man beneath, and finally, with even the last shield cast aside, when he was at his most defenseless, with every fault intact and scar exposed, loved him anyway; unconditionally and without agenda. 

And, to James' utter exasperation-- it's obvious now that Tiago was struck late by the realization-- and of course, in this moment when it happened, when it became clear that his obsession had transformed; blossomed into something genuine and good, he panicked, and in a fit of conscience he mistakenly thought was selfless, Tiago, without consultation or the courtesy of a warning, chose honor over James, sacrificing both their happiness in one fell swoop.

The path to hell is paved with good intentions. 

All he has now is the mocking consolation of memories, and memories are cruel. 

He wants to hate the bastard, because at least James Bond knows what to do with that. Hate, he can channel into other, more productive avenues, but this angry longing and crushing sadness drives him instead into a fruitless game of cat and mouse he knows will eventually drive him mad. 

He already feels the creeping, abrading edge of it. 

After a month, when 007 is at last restored to his former glory, the doctor gives him the official stamp returning him to active-duty and it's not a minute to soon. Mom whips him out from behind the desk and slings him into the field, and like a starved lion let loose into the wild, he attacks it, storming into one mission after the next, punching through with a hunger that would resemble ambition it it didn't   
so often walk the fine line of self-destruction. 

There is, at times, verbal intervention in the form of wagging fingers and a hanging threat of demotion that will never materialize because he's goddamn good at what he does, besides, he's got a guardian angel on his shoulder. 

At least, that's what he catches from the gossip mill.

He's one, lucky son-of-a-bitch. He's a cat with nine lives plus one, and no one knows exactly why. Though, James has a feeling he does.

It's the same sensation of knowing-- just knowing you're being watched; that pins and needles itch on the back of the neck. 

In every scrape and bind, no matter how precarious, he manages, every, single time, to escape relatively unscathed, aided by helpful, invisible meddling.

Q, too seasoned for superstition and always with a wily eye on 007 for suspiciously flouting the branch's aide on one too many occasions, knows something else is afoot, or more precisely, that someone else is underfoot and he isn't shy about cluing James in that he suspects as much. 

James response is carefully moderate and politely ambiguous, but never too curious or not curious enough-- either might raise alarm.

Fortunately, no one takes the old handler's opinion on the matter very seriously.

But the fact is, Q's inkling is enough to support James' paranoia and it's terrible to know Tiago is there: a real presence, still helping, still guiding, and always remaining tauntingly just out of reach, no matter how much he digs, how vigilant he stays, what outsourcing he attempts or what channels and under the table dealings he slogs through. 

Time heals all wounds. 

That's what he's always heard, but he's still waiting for evidence of that. 

As years pass, hope begins to fade though the heartache lingers. 

The search for Tiago Rodriguez winds to an end and the obsession dwindles, eventually rerouting itself into a distant sort of longing and it always tastes a little bittersweet. 

He's no longer angry. 

When he looks in the mirror now days, he sees his youth fading away in the lines and creases and gray in his stubble, and then, one day, it takes him by surprise, but he thinks he understands now. Maturity brings with it a certain clarity and within this, a sort of closure. 

Tiago lost conviction and believed that if James were to stay it would be out of pity or his own machinations. He couldn't accept that James' feelings might be genuine, and for that, perhaps James thinks he might have tried a little harder to convince him. He was fully prepared to do so, but he wasn't really given the opportunity. 

In defense of Tiago's actions, they made sense. At the time, they made more sense than anything else. 

Reflecting back on the entire experience, that seems, sometimes almost too bizarre to have ever happened, he does realize just how unhealthy his preoccupation with finding Tiago was, because, after all, what would he have done were they to meet again? Run off from everything, given up his entire life to join the man in some mad life of adventure and crime? The mere idea of it is absurd. Laughable.

But he can't laugh because when he lets his imagination carry him off to explore the possibilities, he thinks he might have loved that life. 

Just as he'd loved the man. 

Which he knows is foolish, Just as he knows romanticizing his memories of their time together is foolish. The man was damaged, possibly beyond repair in so many ways and their relationship, if it can be called that, was built on a foundation of lies and manipulation. It was unhealthy, obsessive, codependent and terribly dangerous. 

It was also exciting. Their volatility together was explosive and passionate and James had never felt more alive and hasn't felt quite so since. Also, somewhere in the mess of it, they found a sort of peace. Not the ideal of domestic bliss by any stretch, but then, neither of them were made for that. 

They might have healed each other given time. Or, possibly killed each other. 

But whatever eventuality, there was potential there-- they had that in spades. They were well matched, sort of made for each other and James, in his heart of hearts, gets the rarity of that and grieves for it's loss. He gets it more now than he did before. 

That's what too much time to think and too much time alone does, which is why he tries to keep himself busy and his bed occupied. 

It also helps to remind himself that retrospective regret is not his burden to bear, the choice was taken from him. 

Eventually, the people he meets he starts to actually look at, there are a couple he marries, a few he falls in love with, and many, perhaps a few too many more, he loves and leaves. 

The romps, the relationships, they don't disappoint exactly, but they never quite fill the gap. But, they ultimately serve their purpose, and sometimes, he fancies himself happy. He thinks he is anyway. At least he mostly doesn't dream of Tiago as often anymore.

He defies the odds and keeps living in spite of the best efforts of his enemies. His colleagues forget to think of him as lucky and admire his skill instead. Old Q still looks at him funny sometimes but no longer says a word. 

James Bond is a valuable asset to MI6. The best double-oh in well over a decade and he's compensated generously for it. He has all the luxuries and superficial accessories he could dream of. He lives his life with an intensity, he lives it fast, and he lives it hard. He serves Queen and Country with flourish. 

He has honor, respect and damn fine style. 

Much of the time he forgets to thank the phantom who continues to make all of this possible. 

He doesn't mean to take for granted Tiago (or is it just Silva now?) occasional, sporadic, impersonal and always invisible aid, but he also no longer thinks too much about it because he can't afford the wistful twinge of pain this acknowledgment invites. After a time, whatever it is lending a hand from the shadows is so ingrained into his life, he barely registers it at all. 

But there are also times, every once in a while, as he's closing in on retirement, as the years begin to slow him down a little, when in a private moment by himself, when he's feeling strangely depressed, a little nostalgic and a little lonely, James finds himself dredging up old memories. At first, they're rarely very pleasant, but then, as all things eventually do, they temper and mellow. 

Tiago keeps him company on the veranda, sipping scotch and keeping him sharp with playful banter. He imagines his silky waves of black hair are still every bit as soft but silver around the temples now. He imagines Tiago's arm casually draped around his waist and the fond, intimate tilt of a small smile as James says something particularly clever. The lapse into an easy, companionable silence, the kind they had become rather good at. Sharing the last cigarette of the evening before turning in. Curling around each other before drifting to sleep. 

The ache inside recedes for a time with these lonely thoughts, only to return when he calls himself out on the lapse. It's an old wound and he knows if he keeps scraping the scab off it will never heal. 

But as time slips by, more and more, he invites back the fantasy, and though he thinks his head might just be going to rot with age and drink, it no longer hurts as much as it comforts. 

Finally, James accepts that he never fell out of love with Tiago, and as sad as that is, well, fuck all, he doesn't really mind. 

It's just that he wishes Tiago knew that.


	21. Chapter 21

A searing pain rips through his shoulder and James Bond falls.

Stunned, he crashes through the surface and the current swallows him under.

As he drowns, he dreams. The swirling shadows that coalesce out of the depths of his memory haunt him still when he stirs awake.

He's not surprised to be alive, and of course there is the inconvenient factor of the stubborn language barrier between him and the pretty girl asleep beside him.

The casing shrapnel inexpertly dug out of his shredded muscle heals with swimming and the summer sun, but still aches like a son of a bitch, especially at night and the ugly, mottled scar reminds him daily how foolish he was to think he was anything more than another pawn to M. It wasn't a clean shot but he knows the old bitch called it anyway, so, while the liquor abates the sharp sting of this particular, bitter fact, he decides to fuck off for awhile and enjoy his afterlife.

The beach, the sun, the sand, it's all idyllic except for the occasional twinge that reminds him of Vesper, which, of course, drudges up even deeper wounds, but it's nothing that can't be muffled with pills, booze and sex.

Of course, this pleasant holiday abruptly ends when he catches the news and discovers the cyberterrorist assault on British Secret Services-- which results in stirring back up his old, faithful, implacable sense of duty, inevitably drawing him back into the fold.

His resurface is not met with apology. He didn't expect it.

Mallory, chomping at the bit to streamline and turn over the old pack tells him it's a “young man's game” and that he shouldn't be ashamed to admit he's lost a step. This doesn't discourage him.

“Hire me or fire me, it's entirely up to you,” he replies, coolly cavalier.

It's not that he wants back in, it's that he needs it, but he's too seasoned to reveal it to this condescending, bureaucratic, behind-the-desk bastard. M snaps to his defense and Mallory accuses her of sentimentality which suggests he's a poor judge of character, but he cedes to her demands, wishes 007 good luck and tells him not to 'cock it up'.

He knows he shouldn't be put in the field. He can barely aim his new PP7 without shaking. M clears him anyway. To his relief, she doesn't ask why he's so intent to get back out and he tries not to dissect why she would so readily allow him to, granted, he's still the best they've got, especially now with their diminishing forces, and she's verging on desperate in a rapidly escalating and potentially catastrophic situation.

It's evident the attack on MI6 is personal and the lists exposing embedded operatives is a nasty touch that rankles M's pride, for under her watch, unfolds the greatest intel security breach in British history. The villain is clever, ruthless and ready and she's clearly the target.

This is not why 007 is determined to see out this job, however. It's not to avenge Ronson or any of his other colleagues caught in the crossfire, and it is especially not to defend M, who would be quite appalled to think this was the impetus. Particularly since the old battle axe has had a lifetime to prepare for this type of attack, after all, no one who gets to her age and position can sit in that seat without having accrued an unfortunate number of enemies.

The large cache of which, offers many possibilities, and little specificity.

James has an uneasy feeling propelling him forth. If he can dispel what he suspects, he'll gracefully step back and lead out some muscles in his stead, because if he's wrong, then this ought to be a much less complicated operation.

However, if he's right, then he's absolutely positive he's the only one equipped for it.

What sells him is Q's replacement. The young man is exactly as he appears to be: every bit as brilliant as he is arrogant. MI6's valuable, fresh acquisition is innovative, capable and subtle, and while altogether different in personality from the only other man James has ever met able to boast such attributes, at the same time, might be the only man capable of giving him a run for his money.

Yet at first, though the genius is predictably green with envy, he's eventually humbled to utter admiration by the superior skill demonstrated by his adversary and James can practically see Silva laughing at all of them from somewhere behind the glow of many monitors, watching, biding his time. Waiting for James.

There is no time to meander the motive, no time to rehearse what he'll do or say when they come face to face.

Raoul Silva's magnum opus is set in motion.

The leftover depleted uranium shell found in his shoulder leads MI6 to Patrice and thus to Shanghai.

James is assisted by the very same pretty operative who shot him, which is great because he knows he can trust her. She's attracted to him and he beds her, which lets off a little steam, and calmer, collected, he's prepared to follow the scent which brought them here in the first place.

Interestingly, this scent smells of an expensive custom blend as exotic, sensuous and dangerous as the woman it's designed for.

Severine comes to him as an emissary; a beautiful bate in a trap James knows he has to walk into. It's made for him after all, and it's one the hunter is aware the prey can see as plain as day. He's meant to. It's a joke. Severine is the punchline, but she doesn't realize it yet-- she won't until it's too late and James pities her a little, and he knows it's rather heartless, but he won't be her knight in shining armor.

Of course, he'll play the part for as long as she pretends to be a damsel in distress.

She conveys to 007 what she is meant to while radiating uncertainty and fear in a quest to evoke his sense of chivalry. Her situation is desperate, sympathetic. She doesn't ask him to slay the dragon, but she certainly implies it would be to her benefit and James would be won to her cause if he didn't recognize her. Severine's performance, after all, is convincing; almost flawless.

But this femme fatale in her lacy Jany Temime and beretta strapped to her thigh, has, to her misfortune, a dossier James is familiar with linking her to SPECTRE. If she's the one he sent, this means Silva is already aware of her duplicitous motives, which of course means her days are numbered. Whatever the case may be, she doesn't merit further attention but he takes her in the shower anyway once they're aboard the 'Chimera'--

because he's feeling reckless and angry and Silva would expect it of him, so why not live up to his expectations.

which is every bit as perfect as they designed it to be

The entire cabin is floor to ceiling cherry paneling, luxurious and masculine and though Severine is it's current resident, it smells of him.

James, a little guiltily, basks in it while she's dressing and can't see the way his eyes close, almost losing himself to his urge to flop back on the bed and sink into the egyptian cotton.

Early noon, he joins Severine on the deck as they approach their destination and flips on the radio to alert HQ of their coordinates as an isolated island comes into view.

Silva's men escort him through the decrepit remains of a factory town.

“He wanted the island, so he took it,” Severine tells him.

“Does he always get what he wants?” James ponders aloud, and though it's rhetorical, he frames it as a question.

“More than you know,” She replies vaguely and genuinely bitter. For a moment of solidarity with this sentiment, his stoicism cracks with the minute curl of an ironic smirk before James slips back into neutrality. She doesn't catch it. She wouldn't understand the reason for it anyway.

And then, directed at gunpoint, James is parted from Severine and led into a cavernous room gutted of it's furnishings to make space for tower after tower of computer stacks all wired strategically together. They chain him to a rickety chair and all but two exit to stand guard at the door.

Across from him is an elevator, quietly descending down the open shaft.

He sits up a little straighter in his chair when it touches the floor.

“Hello, James, welcome,” Silva greets cordially, making his grand entrance, “Do you like the island?”

He hasn't heard him in decades, but even from afar, in spite of the unnaturally light shade of blonde he now sports and his confident gait, James can tell it's him by his distinct, accented tenor. It's perhaps deeper now with age, but the moderated, soothing tone is as smooth and rich as melted butter as it echoes softly to him from across the hall.

“My grandmother had an island, the blonde tells him, approaching slowly with the slightest delighted swagger to his step, “Nothing to boast of, you could walk along it in an hour.”

Coconuts, rats, buried oil drums. An analogy. He listens carefully because there is little Silva says that isn't important and this is a man who has never had the patience to repeat himself. All the while he nears ever closer, his voice wraps around them, warm and sultry and James, spellbound, could lose himself to the sound of it if he weren't so intent on hearing the end of the story.

After all this time, Tiago is opening up about his past, revealing himself through the armor of his alias.

“The two survivors. That is what she made us.”

This confirms what James has long suspected.

“I've made my own choices,” He argues on M's behalf out of long ingrained loyalty.

Silva scoffs. “You think you did, that is her genius.”

He looks at him for a good moment. Coiffed blonde hair, impeccably dressed if a bit ostentatious, barely the hint of lasered away scarring around the edge of his jawline; a new man in nearly every way and still exactly the same. Then he looks through him, beyond him, remembering something he'd heard about many years ago when he was still a new recruit, adds this to everything he knows already and the pieces suddenly fall into place.

“Station H. Am I right? Hong Kong.”

The blonde nods with a smile. Proud of him for getting it right.

“86 to 97',” Silva adds, turning around for a moment. “Back then I was her favorite, and you're not nearly the agent I was, I can tell you that.”

James, not in the least offended, smirks, but not unkindly, because he can hear the undercurrent of jealousy and pain hidden so well beneath the cest-la-vie surface and knows it was not intended as a personal insult.

Pulling out a chair across from his captive, Silva seats himself. “Just look at you, barely held together by your pills and your drink.”

The agent shrugs a little in admission, and then realizes the observant accusation, this time meant disparagingly, must mean Tiago has kicked his own myriad of harmful habits. Briefly, reevaluating the man before him, he sees how healthy he looks. He finds he's pleased by this.

“Don't forget my pathetic love of country,” James adds, pulling an amused laugh from his companion.

“You're still clinging to your faith in that old woman when all she does is lie to you.”

“She never lied to me.”

The objection is met with expected skepticism.

“No? What did you score on your marksmanship evaluation?”

“70.”

Silva tosses back his head and laughs.

“40,” he informs him, as if this is news to the agent.

“Did she tell you the psychiatrist cleared you for duty?”

“Yes,” James confirms, unaffected.

“No. No,” Silva negates with a heavy sigh before relocating to the nearby computer desk.

“Medical Evaluation: Fail. Physical Evaluation: Failed. Psychological evaluation: Alcohol and substance addiction indicated, ” he tisks with a shake of his head, “Pathological rejection of authority based on unresolved childhood trauma.”

oof,

James frowns, not acquainted with this addendum and for a moment feels uncomfortably exposed. Silva gazes across at him with a long, chagrined look.

There is an edge of apology there for a moment and then it's gone. “Subject is not approved for field duty and immediate suspension from service advised.”

“What is this if not betrayal?” He asks meaningfully, rising to rejoin his taciturn companion, “She sent you after me knowing you're not ready, knowing you'll likely die.”

Silva frowns with disapproval.

“Mommy was very bad.”

James finds himself staring down hard at his knees. The point sinks in home. They both knew he wasn't ready for the field, but she didn't have the benefit of knowing he'd more than likely live through an encounter with Silva. The realization that he could be this expendable to M after so many years of committed service hurts like a kick to the gut and is but one more strike to add to the growing list.

The blonde drags his chair closer, seating himself once again across from him and James watches him with a closed expression as the man examines him with one lingering, sweep of his brown eyes downward. When he glances back up his gaze is heavier, a little coy, a little shy, and very warm. James swallows, his mouth gone dry with the sudden, intimate proximity.

Much to his despair, Tiago seems to have the same effect on him he always had, only he tries to remind himself that he's not exactly sure this man is still Tiago.

The blonde's gaze fixes on his chest and reaches forward, unbuttoning the agent's collar, but the action seems to lack the self-assurance he'd demonstrated earlier and when he parts his shirt, his hand shakes slightly. James inhales through his nose, none too calmly as Silva's fingers creep beneath the fabric, moving lightly across his chest to expose his most recent scar.

“See what she's done to you?” he points out softly.

James stares down his captor with critical irony. “Well, she never tied me to a chair.”

“Her loss,” Silva replies too softly for anyone's ears but their own as he reverently, distractedly and almost too tenderly dances his fingers across the agent's chest, apparently forgetting they have an audience.

“Are you sure this is about M?” James asks quietly, curious and a little anxious.

“It's about her,” he answers truthfully, “And you, and me.”

The blonde is so near, he can feel his companion's breath waft against throat, and this close, he can smell his cologne, and just below it, the unforgettable salty, soapy-clean, natural scent of his short-time, once-upon-a-time lover, and see where beads of sweat have collected just above the full curve of his top lip. It's been so long, and the desire comes rushing back, just as powerful, just as instinctively reactive, and he feels himself tighten beneath his trousers with arousal and can do nothing to hide it.

Isn't sure he wants to.

When he looks across, between the blonde's slightly parted thighs, he can see by the swollen bulge pushing against the fabric that he's just as effected.

“You see, we are the last two rats. We can either eat each other,” Silva explains to him simply, tone laden with invitation, “Or eat everyone else.”

James can't respond immediately, as his companion's wandering fingers have discovered his bared neck.

“How you're trying to remember your training now,” he smirks, tracing along the outline of his adam's apple, “What's the regulation to cover this?”

James tries to remain stoic, ambivalent, skeptical, but he knows the high flush that's crept into his cheeks makes this unconvincing.

“Well, first time for everything, yes?” The blonde asks resting his palms flat on the upper, inside part of the agent's thighs. His thumbs make a few lazy circles a hairsbreadth away from the center of his groin before stroking the rest of the way down to his knees.

James accommodatingly parts his legs and smirks.

“What makes you think this is my first time?” He retorts in a low drawl, falling into their old, playful banter as if it was only yesterday.

“Oh, Mister Bond,” Silva purrs with a suggestive lilt.

“Leave us,” he orders his guards, his eyes never leaving James'.

The door clicks shut and they're alone.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uploading from my phone is a bitch. I take no credit for any bizarre typos, duplications, or spacing errors. I've edited my guts put and I'm now at war with all technology.

A few seconds tick by slowly and their gaze remains fixed, unwavering; imbued with an unspoken challenge where the terms are vague but preset.

In this cavernous, musty chamber of whirring computers, the electricity seems to James like it's being summoned right from the tangle of wires into the space between them: Crackling and alive, potent and tangible enough to feel, a buzzing heat that spreads from the tips of his fingers to the tip of his cock, and he can almost taste the singe of combustion smoldering in the air, the sharp tinge of it, metallic-- like a shorting fuse. It's dangerous, unpredictable and erotic: the exact primal, paradigmatic triad of forces he's always been hopelessly addicted to. Elusive, impossible to replicate, something, that experience has taught that only one man can galvanize, proving that the years have changed nothing. 

It would be a little humiliating if it were one-sided, but to his satisfaction, it's clear by the reflected intensity burning in Silva's eyes that he suffers equally. However, he doesn't struggle to disguise it as anything but what it genuinely is, and James can't determine if this is by accident or design. 

The ambiguity adds a complicating, volatile delicacy to the situation not dissimilar from playing chess with a well matched opponent where there are a variety of combinations with exponentially vast consequences. One wrong move, and checkmate. He doesn't say, ' _I am your mercy_ ,' but they both know it's true and time exaggerates herself, stretching for what seems like an eternity before Silva finally withdraws his hands from James' knees, folding them in his lap, politely poised and regarding him with a patient curiosity, as if he's saying: ' _Your move_ '.

It takes a few seconds to decipher the cause for the bereft, phantom limb sensation that results from the loss of physical contact, but when he figures it out, James finds he is quietly dismayed with himself, because it's a weakness the way he craves his touch, still, after everything, particularly since he is not so foolish to misinterpret the intent behind it. Silva's gentle, teasing caresses had been meant to serve as a cruel reminder of what they once, briefly meant to each other, subverted into mockery.

It was suppose to destabilize, antagonize. Logically, he knows this.

Instead, illogically, it had grounded him. Snapped back into place that old connection, undoing them both in a way neither were prepared for. James had bore witness to the way the blonde's confidence had slipped, crumbling from his first touch, but now, banking on this angle, he's regained his edge.

“I've missed you. And, I've thought of you so often,” he adds, reaching up to stroke his cheek before slipping his palm beneath his jaw, gently cupping his chin. “So many times I've wondered if you thought of me as well.”

Having anticipated this tactic, his words lack their intended impact. It rankles to know his old lover is mercenary enough to exploit their rediscovered bond to his advantage. Feeling spiteful, James foils his opponent because turnabout is fair play.

“A claim supported by physical evidence,” he drawls, dropping his gaze to Silva's groin and leering at him with a cutting smirk. “Aren't you going to at least offer me a drink first?”

The blonde's reaction is as expected, and affronted, he immediately recoils, snatching back his hand from James' face as if it had burned him.

“Not undeserved, but certainly unwarranted,” he retorts, stung.

“My apologies, you'll have to forgive if I was under a mistaken impression,” James clips back, rattling his chains behind the chair. “I am at a disadvantage, and from my experience, you've always seemed keen on keeping me that way. Or are you rehabilitated from that particular vice as well?”

Silva sighs, shaking his head.

“James,” he chuckles softly, “What is this? We both know you know better. I had hoped, now that it's just the two of us, that we might be able to have a civil conversation.”

“I assume you knew before you came here today who I was,” Silva adds, settling back into his chair with an easy smile, his carefully constructed veneer too faultless to be unrehearsed. James, however, doesn't need to intuit the nervous energy thrumming beneath-- it bubbles to the surface in tiny, subtle tells he recognizes immediately though they've been tucked into the back drawer of his memory for decades.

“I had some idea,” James replies coolly.

“I know this place...isn't exactly paradise,” Silva sighs, gesturing at the cluttered rows of stacks and peeling walls, “I had often imagined the setting of our eventual reunion would smell a little less like gulls and guano, but we must make do with what we've got and anyway, I do hope you at least had a pleasant jaunt here. What do you think of her, meu querido? Isn't she lovely?”

Staring at the blonde mutely and trying not to bristle at the old, familiar endearment, James awaits further clarification, unsure how to approach the subject of Severine without damning himself too much in the process.

“The Chimera is a marvel, and she's all yours, you know, I had her made to our original specs, with one or two more modern enhancements of course, she's very cutting edge, you'll love to sail her, cuts through the water like butter...” Silva, catching James' look of dawning comprehension and pauses for a moment before clapping a hand over his face with a long, exasperated groan. “Oh meus deus! You thought I was referring to our resident darling in chiffon and lace?”

With a quick, speculative glance-over, Silva shakes his head and laughs. “Well, my little pet does have her uses, though I fear she's just about used up. I do hope you weren't too taken with her little stories, she's quite the actress.”

James shrugs. “I have a passing familiarity with her resume.”

“Mm, yes, dirty isn't it?” The blonde grins, showing far too many perfectly straight, white teeth, “Well, never mind, that's on the agenda to be dealt with later, on to more interesting topics: You. Look at you.  _What happened_?"

James responds with a scowl picking up on the unflattering inference.

“Oh, my dear, don't look at me that way, you're still every bit as handsome as you've always been, but you look so tired. She's used you, and used you, and look at what's she's left of you?”

 

Grinding his teeth is only fractionally as cathartic as tossing out a cutting retort.

“You have no idea how often I wanted to put my foot down. Enough is enough. But I knew you'd resent it if I tried to interfere so I held back... against my own better judgment,” Silva adds with emphasis, “but you've always been so driven. Doing what you can for the greater good. It's something I've always admired about you. That heart of yours.”

The blonde sighs, gazing off beyond James with a wistful expression before rediscovering his train of thought.

“Ah, but then it's not all selfless, I remember the perks of the job: the car, the suits the style.” Silva grins. “The ” sex.

James eyes narrow, anticipating the inevitable route this conversation is heading down.

“And my, my, you've been a busy boy, haven't you? Your closet must have one hell of a collection of belts for how many notches you've added over the years, hmm?” Silva asks, waggling his eyebrows comically.

But, the attempt falls flat and James isn't even slightly amused.

“Ah, you've always had a rather touchy sense of humour, haven't you? Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, right. MI6,” Silva continues, refocusing himself, “Chasing spies. So old fashioned.”

Circling around the back, he unchains James from the chair, and freed, the agent, remaining seated, shakes out his arms and smooths his palms down the wrinkles in his sleeves before massaging his wrists, a little grateful, but unwilling to say so. When he looks up again, Silva is standing back with his hands clasped and looking down at him with a pitying frown.

“Your knees must be killing you.” He shakes his head and sighs melodramatically, “England. The Empire. MI6. You're living in a ruin as well.”

His laugh is hollow.

“You just don't know it yet.”

James makes a tactical decision to wait for him to finish his meandering attempt at indoctrination, though he can't deny the words ring true. Uncomfortably so. “At least here, there are no old ladies giving orders and no little... gadgets,” Silva snorts. “ Those fools in Q branch.”

Perching himself on the edge of his desk with a sort of casual grace, the blonde smiles to himself a bit distantly before looking back up at him.

“If you wanted you could pick your own secret missions. As I do.” he pauses, studying James curiously. “Hmm?”

When he doesn't receive a reply, he rolls his eyes, unable to hide his sincere irritation.

“I've missed this, you know,” Silva drawls, “Me, doing all the talking, you, sitting there with that constipated look on your face.”

James doesn't spare him the courtesy of participation-- on principle.

“I'm serious, James, you could do anything you like,” he insists, pushing himself from the desk back to his feet and strolling over to turn the display of his monitor on to demonstrate his point.

“Name it,” Silva insists again with even more conviction; desperate to make his point, “Name it.” 

“Destabalize multinational by manipulating stocks. Bip. Easy. Interrupt transmissions from a spy satellite over Kabul... Done.”

James aims at the man a stern, unimpressed frown.

“Rig an election in Uganda. All to the highest bidder,” the blonde continues, unmoved by his companion's obvious disapproval.

“Or a gas explosion in London,” James interjects darkly.

Silva shrugs, unconcerned. “Just a click of a button.”

He's not stupid. James hears the offer: 'Join me.'

He's certainly not stupid enough to let Silva know he's heard it.

“Everybody needs a hobby,” he replies flippantly.

The blonde raises his eyebrows, clearly annoyed but he won't show it.

“So what's yours?” Silva asks sportingly.

James grins. “Resurrection.”

It's Silva's turn to look unimpressed. “Oh. Good, he found his sense of humour.”

“I admit, I'm a bit astonished that you think you can convince me of anything with the examples you provided,” The agent points out for the record.

“Legality is conceptual and so, tiresomely subjective.”

“What of morality?” James counters, entertaining the debate.

Silva snorts. “What of it? Never been my strong suit. Or yours, for that matter.”

James stares him down skeptically.

“What? Don't try to tell me your stockings aren't stuffed full of coal. Your records are pretty counter indicative of that.”

“I thought you admired my drive to 'do good'.”

“You are purposefully missing the point, and it's becoming very exhausting! Look, I have the freedom to pursue what I deem a worthy cause, while you, my dear, are chained to serve the interests of a single master-- one you trust a little too blindly.”

“Humanity,” he continues, “That's where I concentrate my efforts. You see, I'm free. I've liberated myself from this confining, restrictive, hive mind compulsion we good little soldiers like to impose upon ourselves. I answer to myself. I am my own highest authority. My own man. I have unlimited flexibility and thus, the capacity to make a difference. Do you?” 

James snorts. “You know Robin Hood is just a story right?”

“Steal from the rich, give to the poor? Not a bad philosophy. It certainly pays well.”

“You pay yourself well,” James clarifies.

“I like to consider myself an accountant that can be held accountable. Ask any of the help, they'll tell you. They'll loyally back me on this.”

“Money does tend to buy loyalty.”

“Exactly my point.

The blonde finds his chair and pulls it across the floor, flinching a little when the legs screech as they drag across the waxed cement.

“Look,” Silva says, taking a seat across from James, “Let me be frank. I want you on my side. I want you where I know you'll be safe.”

“I appreciate your consideration, but I have to decline.”

“You don't know what I'm offering yet,” Silva objects.

“I'm not interested in bribes.” James hesitates. “Are you planning to blackmail me?”

Silva pretends to consider this. “I could if that's what it takes.”

“I don't want to be involved.”

“Should I interpret that to mean you'll also stay out of my way?”

James gives him a hard stare.

“You know I won't.”

“You can't stop me, my dear, what's to come will come, with or without you,” Silva explains patiently, “I'd prefer not to have to kill you.” “Then, what's to come will come,” James replies firmly.

The blonde sighs, dropping his head into his hands before looking back up. “I told you once you weren't expendable. I meant it.”

“So you won't kill me?”

Sincerely dismayed, Silva stares him down with a hard, chastening frown.

“Do you really believe I could?”

“Well, for the sake of argument, I'm unarmed, opposed to your cause and currently at your mercy,” James points out, “But I would like to add, that I'd prefer to walk out of here alive and intact.”

Silva scowls, offended. “Don't be foolish. If you're not going to stand with me on this then stay back. I can't guarantee your safety if you intercede.”

“I'm not the one being foolish. This won't end well, Tiago. You are vastly underestimating the response you'll get if you carry through with this. It's suicide.”

“Que sera sera, James, whatever will be will be,” Silva replies blandly, “I can't convince you, and nor you me, therefore, I think we can say we're at an impasse.”

James hates the feeling of defeat: the heavy, heart sinking feeling of failure where the potential for success could exist.

He sees that potential now.

“May I pose an offer?” he asks, the question sounding less confident than he'd intended.

Silva meditates on this for a moment with his eyes closed and fingers steepled beneath his chin before inhaling deeply and looking back up at James with cautious wariness.

“I certainly won't stop you.”

“What if I were to suggest an alternative?”

“Alteration, perhaps, however, alternatives are off the table,” He declares resolutely.

James takes a second to restyle his approach.

“Then, in that case, let me start with a hypothetical question: Aside from your quest to destroy M and take down half of MI6 with her, would you still be interested in recruiting me?”

“Certainly.”

“Would you have ever sought me out otherwise?”

“If I must be completely honest, no. These plans were in the makings before we even met. The serendipity of circumstances being what they are makes an offer for alliance convenient.”

“It's nothing personal.” James concludes, very careful not to show how painful it was to come to this conclusion.

Silva pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers and sighs. “Oh, James, once again you've missed the point.”

James scoffs and it comes out bitter. “Alright, then enlighten me.” “Alright, then enlighten me.”

“You imagine that you mean so little to me. When M called that shot, James, that was what sealed her fate. I have longed for her to pay for what she did to me, but at any time, I might have forgiven her had she not betrayed you.”

“It was a necessary risk she took. Patrice was in our line of sight. It was a fifty-fifty chance.”

“You can't possibly believe that! It was an incredible misjudgment--risking the life of a highly valued, seasoned agent in the chance that it might take out a lackey who doesn't even merit a spot in the top most wanted. It was a desperate, criminally selfish act!”

James tries for a more diplomatic approach:

“In her position, can you say you wouldn't have made the same call?” He poses, casting out into deeper waters.

Silva bolts out of his chair sending it clattering to the floor behind him.

“What don't you understand when I tell you that you are not expendable?” He shouts so loudly the echo ricochets off the walls.

James can't help but be impressed and perhaps a little flattered by Silva's intense, impassioned fury on his behalf.

“Service to country makes every man expendable for a greater purpose,” he explains rationally.

“And I wish you'd reconsider that,” the blonde huffs, righting his chair before standing behind it, gripping the backrest to brace himself.

“Why?” James asks, making the question easy.

“Because you're not expendable to me,” Silva confesses, wiping off his damp forehead with the back of his hand.

James' purposefully impassive expression reignites his companion's temper, and the agent watches as he strides back to his desk to rifle through it's drawers.

“Are you really so dense that you don't understand that? It's a simple concept,” he continues, “I have hard evidence to prove it.”

Stalking back over, Silva drops a small pencil box upon his lap, and James blinks at it for a few confused seconds before it occurs to him he's meant to open it and review it's contents.

What he finds is a stash of jump drives attached with stickers labeling dates backlogging decades.

It's humbling.

“Who else has been saving your ass all these years when you couldn't rely on a capable quartermaster? Did you think it was Jesus? Allah? Impossibly good fortune?”

“I knew,” James admits quietly, closing the box before handing it back to it's owner. “And I was never able to thank you in person. I have to assume you preferred it that way.”

“Spare me your gratitude,” Silva scoffs, scooting the chair back to it's place across from the agent. Sitting down, he leans forward, resting his hands, palms closed at his knees. When he looks back up, his expression is flat, sealed from inspection.

“Interesting,” the blonde mutters cryptically, examining James with a clinical, unsettling detachment, as if he's studying a specimen prior to dissection.

James takes the bate.

“What?” he asks, uncomfortably self-conscious.

“You missed me,” Silva states bluntly. “Am I wrong?”

James feels his hands reflexively curl into fists, finding something in the man's tone triggering of a defensive response.

“Absolutely,” he answers, heavy on the sarcasm because he doesn't quite trust Silva's sudden mercurial shift will result in anything harmless.

“Really?”

James shrugs. “Every waking moment.”

In response to this, Silva bursts into laughter. “Careful,” he warns, shaking a finger, “I might believe you mean it.”

Wisely, James stymies a rebellious defense, settling instead for disapproving silence which Silva takes in stride, returning with a wide, disingenuous grin.

“Ah, see, I recognize that face. It's the serious one you make when I've said something you don't like. Because I'm generous, I'll spare you my analysis.” “No, please, humour me,” James invites with a glance at his watch, seeing he still has a good deal of time to make stretch.

“Well, not if you have somewhere else you need to be,” the blonde huffs, catching him in the act.

James aims at him a courteous smile. “Turns out, you're the only appointment I've scheduled for today.”

“Good. I wouldn't want you missing anything important,” Silva retorts.

“Anyway,” he continues, pretending concern with a wrinkle on his sleeve to deliberately avoid eye contact. “Regardless of your sarcasm, I know you were telling the truth. I know you missed me.”

The blonde deliberately pauses and looks back up, studying James carefully for reaction. What he gets is icy, unimpressed silence.

“Well, you don't argue that. I think you know that would be a little counterproductive at this point. Do you know how I know?” He asks, pausing again to draw out the suspense, “hmm?”

James nearly bites his tongue to refrain from pointing out the fact that pointing out the obvious is in itself, counterproductive.

“Because, you've been messy,” Silva chastises, “Leaving trails all over cyberspace. Hmm-mm. Inexcusably sloppy. But, to my good fortune, nothing a little ghost or well placed bot can't follow. The rest? Not so taxing to recover. Simply deleting your cache doesn't permanently execute your actions. I thought I'd taught you better than that.”

The blonde's expression is every bit as triumphant as it is sympathetic and James, spurred on with a vengeful, ironic sense of amusement, knows it will be a pleasure to wipe it clean off the bastard's face.

“You've caught me red-handed. I confess,” James drolly replies, abruptly ending Silva's tragically short-sighted misconception.

“You wanted me to know you were looking for me,” he states flatly.

“You did your damndest to block every other channel available to me.”

“Necessary. I sent you back, and in time, you might've slipped. It's awfully inconvenient to transplant my entire operation, and your M is a quick cat when she catches a tail. You were far too high-risk.”

James can't help but chuckle unhappily at this poor excuse.

“Not even you believe that,” he counters. “The aspect of all of this that I find the most irritating, is that this entire time, we were on two sides of one, single-sided mirror. You could have at any point contacted me, but you couldn't afford me the same courtesy.”

“You're claiming your grievance is at the injustice,” Silva translates, lifting an eyebrow sardonically.

James feels suddenly very tired of all of this. Running his hand back over his hair, he sighs. “For what purpose have you been tracking me all this time? Helping me?”

“Selfishness,” Silva replies, stubbornly circumnavigating the truth.

“In that case, if you're as selfish as you say you are, then why did you see fit to exile me so thoroughly if it wasn't what you wanted?”

James' strategically blunt question pares the issue to the bare-bones, forcing Silva to return with an answer equally straightforward.

“I would have thought, after all this time, you might have come to that conclusion yourself,” he whispers in a voice so crippling, so nakedly sad, that for the first time, James thinks he can hear Tiago bleeding through the shell.

“I need to hear it. From you. You owe me.”

Silva's eyes narrow in an expression somewhere between affronted and amused.

“I you? I think I've worked off that debt some time ago.” owe

“Not this one,” James points out, relentless. At a stand-still, the two men stare at each other, neither giving way until at last the blonde tiredly seems to reconsider.

“And how will this serve you?” He demands, “What can be gained?”

“Peace of mind,” James tells him truthfully.

Silva rubs his forehead, shaking his head with disbelief. “You've turned into quite the sadist.”

“You want me to hear anything else you have to say here today, then this is a concession I require in payment.”

“You really are a tough customer,” the blonde snorts. “Very well. Have you ever heard the saying that if you love something set it free?”

“You never asked what I wanted,” James points out, aware that this reveals just how long he's been nursing this old bitterness.

“You didn't know what you wanted,” Silva counters, just as bitter. “I made you think what I wanted you to think.”

“You think too highly of your own skill.”

“I trained you to respond to me, rely on me, crave me, and I did so carefully, over measured intervals of time. It was ingrained into you. It was a process. There was nothing organic. Nothing that I didn't create for you.”

“That's quite a God-complex. You're convinced you achieved this?” James asks, “You're convinced that everything I felt was of your manufacturing?”

“Well, you've still yet to elucidate a motive behind your novice attempt to stalk me across the Internet. As of now, I'm still entertaining the theory that you're out for my blood.”

“Would you still invalidate my consent if I gave it to you now?”

Silva snorts a sharp, skeptical laugh, folding his arms across his chest. “Are you offering?”

“If I were, would you believe me?”

He doesn't falter under his companion's scrutiny.

“If you could spare even the smallest scrap of an example... I'd consider it,” Silva relents, warming to the idea barely out of it's conception with magnanimous aplomb.

James knows he's taken this to the point of no return, but he also knows he's longed for this moment for decades.

Leaning toward him, he reaches out and bridges the gap; his hand just barely touching, barely caressing the very edge of the man's jaw. The scars have faded, and are nearly invisible, smooth beneath the tips of his exploring fingers.

“Tiago,” he hears himself whisper, trying out the old name, the real name. It rolls off his tongue easily. It feels good to finally say it out loud again.

“Yes,” Tiago gasps, his eyes fluttering closed, intoxicated with hearing the mere utterance of his name from James' lips, a name, long unused and suddenly reclaimed.

When his eyes reopen, they're bright with hope and dilated with desire.

“What if I told you that you were wrong about everything, that you've always been wrong?” James asks, “What if I told you I want you?”

“If you're speaking hypothetically, then please, show me some mercy and stop,” Tiago pleads, his voice hoarse, “I'll warn you now, we're alone in here, I have a very comfortable sofa upstairs in my office, you're very tempting, and my self control isn't limitless.”

James grins, pleased with himself. He thinks, if he's very clever and very good, he may just be able to kill two birds with one stone: convince Tiago to end his destructive vendetta and explore the possibility of a life with the lover he'd nearly given up for lost. destructive vendetta and explore the possibility of a life with the lover he'd nearly given up for lost.

“Why don't you show me upstairs,” he suggests.

Tiago breathes a sigh of relief. “I thought you'd never ask."


	23. Chapter 23

James tags behind Tiago on their way to the elevator, his heart hammering madly inside his chest, their journey deliberately prolonged by their leader's calm pace and the agent can only fathom that his intention is to test James' resolve: providing a last chance to turn back before they pass the point of no return. He observes a tension in the blonde's shoulders as if he's determined to keep from glancing behind, as if by sheer force of will alone he trusts that James will keep following. 

“If you're suffering any change of heart, now is the time to speak up,” Tiago warns, his tone betraying a tremor beneath the challenge that burrows it's way beneath James' ribs, piercing into his heart. He feels it swell into his throat. 

It's sudden, almost disabling, this staggering ache of sympathy he feels for the man and it's something so few have genuinely roused, the experience so nearly alien, it takes a second to understand; to remember what he's suffering. 

The senescent emotion roots deep, stems from the core of his self conception with enduring tenacity. It's fraternal. It's protective. Because this man, this sensitive, unquestionably unstable genius, though he's never been fragile, needs protection. It instantly harkens back an image in his mind of a younger, very damaged and very lonely man he once knew, both like and unlike the man Tiago presently is. 

The hard contrast is subtler when viewed beneath a different lens: 

Sans James, Tiago relied on Silva; this alias converted into an identity kept him standing. Time bred delusion. Corrupted him.

Silva: the charlatan, Silva: the villain. Heartless. Merciless. Bent on revenge. But the devil within had not consumed him and the illusion is fracturing; Tiago, chiseled out of sterner stuff, is shedding the chrysalis whether he knows it or not, regardless of whether he wants to, and James feels an optimism age had nearly bled him of.

It's a damn good thing because he's lacking a surplus of options and without the luxury of time on his side, he's maintained a realistic attitude regarding his chances; forecasted a rather bleaker outcome. It's also a damn good thing since intrinsically, James's knows his hands had been tied long before he'd ever walked through the door, after all, whether condemned or blessed, whether it be by destiny or circumstance, he had always been tethered to this man's fate. 

From the very start, they would've had to be blind to not see it, numb to not feel it-- the powerful spark of instinctive recognition; the instant inkling of something familiar, primordial, as if the universe was simply sealing a rift. To James, it felt as if he'd been startled awake from a thousand-year sleep.

The term 'kindred', in all it's distressingly clichéd glory, proved an adequate approximation, because despite his best efforts, the attraction was clearly inescapable. 

James remembers how he'd choked the revelation down with half a bottle of far too expensive scotch and in it's wake followed a hangover he'd chased down with a second round because he was young and immortal and stubborn and incredibly angry. His resentment was justified. 

Loneliness was not his burden, he thought he was immune. And so, suddenly aware of being incomplete, he was defenseless. For the first time, he felt truly estranged from himself. 

Early on, in that formative, impressionable transition between boyhood and adolescence, his parent's loss taught James the most vital lesson for survival: Remember the pain, forget how it feels. 

Honoring this, committed entirely to it's cultivation, he purged and scoured, exorcised the past and repaired himself with steel to seal off any chance of ever being disabled again by heartache. He never aspired to fashion himself into some sort of heartless, totalitarian automaton, he wasn't incapable of expressing a fundamental sense of humanity or compassion, he simply wasn't at it's mercy anymore. He defined himself by his independence. He'd become his own best weapon. 

But, in the end, his armor had never been impenetrable, he'd just been naive. 

Reluctantly, James watched as a tentative friendship began to form, creeping like a defiant weed growing out from between the cracks in the sidewalk. At first, he perceived this as a malignancy, best to uproot before it had the chance to mature, but it dug it's stubborn, spindly fingers deep into the soil and in very little time, he realized it was too late. 

James didn't raise the white flag with much enthusiasm, but he did concede with the intrepid hope that lemons could usually be made into lemonade.

Tiago yearned. 

Not for anything unreasonable. Just the basics life had unjustly denied him. He could have earned them all honestly and for a shy second, James thinks Tiago would have, but trust, crippled by a past of betrayal and orphaned alone with his demons, he clutched to their fragile bond in it's infancy. He became impatient, greedy. He wanted more than either imagined the agent could give and resorted to selling his soul for the meager shreds of a pathetic facsimile instead. 

To James, the real tragedy was not the damage incurred when the shit hit the fan, but the fact that Tiago never dared to imagine that from square one, he could've done better by them both. 

He'd mangled their relationship like a novice butcher with a dull knife, and though anyone else would have landed in a casket with a bullet through their eye, James scraped up the scraps and stuck them back together. It was a mess, but then, they were both a mess and life is messy. Tiago's pain was his pain because love makes fools of us all. 

“If you want to leave, the exit is behind you,” Tiago says flatly, unimpressed by James' silence. “Nobody will stop you if you're having second thoughts.” 

“There is only one thought I have in mind at the moment, and that is better demonstrated than spoken,” James counters without hesitation, dispelling any glimmer of doubt the blonde could possibly entertain. 

He wants this. He wants Tiago. He knows this won't end happily. 

Because, in the end, he's still a fool. 

“A promise I'll hold you to.”

James grins, both amused, and pleased for the change of tone. 

“A solid wall would suffice,” he playfully retorts and immediately Tiago whips around with heat in his eyes and a smirk not terribly dissimilar from a shark mocking a minnow before making it lunch. 

“I think you overestimate the structural foundation of this building,” he remarks, “If you think anything will be left standing by the time I'm through with you.”

Taking back up the mantle, Tiago springs back around shepherding James onward with a flourish of his hand, resuming his leisurely pace of before, but this time, there's a distinct swagger to his gait, and James' eyes can't help but drop to follow the sway of the blonde's hips, appreciating the good tailoring that doesn't overtax the imagination when picturing what lies beneath. 

Overall, he's still lean, but he's filled out; there's a muscle tone beneath the Prada and he moves with a strength and grace that reminds James of a dancer he once brought to bed; it's declarative of that kind of leisurely elegance and self-assured physicality that infers Tiago has trained his body into an instrument. 

As a vehicle of expression, it doesn't take much to know what he's saying, and being fluent in this language, the agent can clearly read the deliberate seduction for what it is. 

It successfully achieves it's goal because after the door slides shut, the suspension jolts on it's track and James, attention inopportunely absorbed, fails to anticipate this, lurching forward. He lands heavily against Tiago, knocking a gasp out of them both, but while he's focused on finding his bearings, the blonde has already taken advantage of the situation, wrapping his arms firmly around the agent. 

It's an action that might have been played off as chivalrous if it weren't for the unnecessary length of time he holds them pressed together from chest to groin. It's also just a hair long enough to reveal the problem that sent James tumbling into his arms in the first place. 

With a smirk, Tiago releases him, and the agent, stomach in knots and ears burning with embarrassment, repositions himself to stand at the blonde's side, fixing his gaze forward as the lift ascends.

It's not the erection-- at his age and with as much as he drinks, he's got nothing to be ashamed of. It's the fact that what he's sporting is a result of scoping out his companion's various attributes, and that this was enticing enough to send him flying off balance. To fall prey to such petty distraction is an amateur's lapse. 

“Falling straight into the arms of the enemy,” Tiago muses, “What would Mommy say?” 

James catches a glimpse of the blonde's smirk from the corner of his eye and scowls. 

“You're very funny.”

“Oh, don't be such a sourpuss, it's easy to lose your footing around this hovel,” Tiago offers, sparing a shrug. “We can play it off as 'faulty mechanics'...”

James catches the impish gleam in his companion's eyes and sighs his exasperation at the ceiling, praying to be spared. 

“...At least yours seem to be in working order,” the blonde snorts, completing his punchline. 

The lift chugs to a stop. 

“You know, your humour could use some work,” James admonishes, sweeping a hand casually down the front of his jacket. “But before you get started on that, I can think of a few, far better uses for your mouth.”

The door slides open and James, victorious, winks at the astonished blonde before strolling out into the unfinished interior of a spacious loft, uncluttered and comfortably simple.

Before he can decide if it's stylish or not, he's accosted from behind. 

“Only a few?” Tiago growls indignantly, aggressively flinging the agent around before shoving him into the wall behind him. James' head collides against the paneling with a jarring smack, but to his fortune, the injury is dealt to the cheap chip board rather than his skull. “Should I take that as a challenge?” The blonde demands, stalking forward. 

Before James can protest that there's no need for violence, Tiago lunges at him and his hands land with a loud thump, palms flat on the wall on either side of his head, caging the agent between his arms. 

“Can you think of any good uses for my mouth? Because, I'd be very interested to hear what you have in mind,” he tells him, dark eyes glittering in the dim light. “How would you use my mouth? For your pleasure?”

James blinks, unsure if he's more amused or turned on. 

“Would you also use me for your pleasure when you're done with my mouth?” Tiago asks, pressing himself fully against his captive while working his lips up the length of his throat.

“Well,” James muses, “I certainly wouldn't pass up the opportunity.”

“Ah, good,” Tiago replies, dipping his head to explore beneath his jaw, “So you're an opportunist.”

“If a good opportunity presents itself, it'd be a shame to let it go to waste.” 

“Do you want me to present myself?” the blonde asks, nibbling beneath his jaw until he finds the perfect spot and sucks it tender. “Would you like me to bend over for you, James?” 

The agent gasps at the image this invokes. “If that's up for offer.”

“If I'm up to offer,” Tiago corrects. 

“That would be something incredibly remiss of me not to take advantage of.” 

“Mm,” the blonde agrees, pressing their hips together. “Yes, take advantage of me.” 

James, pinned against the wall by the man, snorts at the irony. 

“It would be my pleasure,” he replies, tipping back his chin to allow better access to the rest of his neck Tiago seems intent on devouring. 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“And yours,” James adds, slipping his hand down his companion's back. Tiago squirms with pleasure the moment he cups his ass. 

“Tell me,” he pleads, “Tell me what you'd do with me. Tell me what you want.”

James squeezes and Tiago muffles a grunt into his shoulder. 

“I want you on your knees...on the floor in front of me.”

“What would I do on my knees?” Tiago asks, looking up at him coyly, the mischievous glint in his eyes betraying the pretense. 

“My shoes could use a good polish.” 

James' deadpan answer earns him a sharp rebuke in the form of the bastard's teeth latching back onto the sensitive bruise on his throat. He reclaims it jealously, as if his mouth hadn't just been there a second ago. 

The pleasure shoots straight to James' cock but after a few more agonizingly slow seconds of this, he's half-ready to accuse Tiago of being a vampire and tries to duck away before the man winds up drawing blood. However, the blonde has other intentions and predictably merciless, responds by seizing his shoulders and forcing him back into submission. Trapping him, the blonde continues on his quest to discover every indecent moan he's capable of rending from James until finally satisfied, he pulls back with a triumphant smirk. 

“After your shoes are shined, your highness, what would you like for me to polish next?”

“My cock,” James replies bluntly, brain-fogged post-assault. 

“Now that's a much better answer,” Tiago praises, pressing his wet mouth against the shell of the agent's ear. “See? I think you're catching on. What do you want next?”

“Your- your lips...” James stutters, melting against the wall for support as he feels the man lap inside the whorl. “Your lips around my cock.” 

“Mm-hmm, then what?” he prompts, gently tugging his lobe between his teeth before sucking it into his mouth. 

For a moment, James is rendered speechless between the dual pleasure of Tiago's tongue and the slow grind of their cocks pressed together, all intended to deprive him of his last spark of coherence. 

Pulling away but still pinning the agent in place with his hand pressed over his sternum, Tiago frowns, clearly disappointed. 

“Your explanation is sadly vague,” he chastises slipping his hand down James' stomach hesitating just over the agent's straining erection tenting out his trousers. 

“Fuck. I want to fuck your mouth,” the agent gasps out, frustrated, “I want to fuck your mouth until your lips are numb and you're gasping for air,” 

“Ah-hah! He can be taught,” Tiago crows, rewarding him with a brief peck of a kiss. It's the first time their lips have touched in decades and it's over before James can even process it's happened. “Tell me how it feels,” the blonde prompts, gently cupping his cock in a tease of a touch too light to satisfy. 

James swallows thickly, his mouth dry with desire. 

“It feels... your mouth feels hot around me, perfect, fucking glorious.” 

Tiago smiles, pleased by his response and massages his swollen head gently through the fabric between his fingers. 

“I want to shoot down your throat, I want you to swallow every last drop. I want to watch you suck me dry.”

The blonde sucks in a breath, moaning as if he's the one being pleasured instead of the one delivering it. 

“Oh,” he gasps, “Oh, yes, meu querido, you're doing perfectly.” 

“Could you come without touching yourself?” James has to ask, because he's incredibly curious and the idea is intensely arousing.

Tiago blinks. 

“Right now?” 

Until he'd asked, that particular thought hadn't yet crossed James' mind. 

“I meant in our hypothetical scenario,” he clarifies, “But since you mentioned it, could you? If I just talked you through it?”

Tiago grins. 

“I don't know. Probably,” he replies, tugging playfully on the agent's collar. “I mean, you're not exactly creative, but you are...hmm.”

Tiago tapers off indecisively before suddenly thrusting forward against James, pulling a surprised gasp of pleasure from the agent. 

“Expressive,” he completes with a satisfied nod. “That's the word I was looking for.” 

Tiago's lips ghost over his own as he skirts his hands between the wall and James' ass, pulling together their hips. “But, truthfully,” the blonde whispers, “If you ordered me to, I likely might.”

James smirks. 

“Oh, very naughty, James,” Tiago laughs with a firm squeeze to the agent's cock, “I did mean once I've taken off my pants. I'm not young enough to be that sloppy. Now, where were we? Hmm? You wanted me to suck you dry?”

“I do,” the agent admits, “But I won't let you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not done with you,” James replies, vibrating with pleasure beneath Tiago's stroking. He doesn't have to look down to know there's a small, dark patch staining through his trousers where his cock is leaking beneath Tiago's palm. 

“When I'm through with your mouth, you'll bend over that desk...” he continues, “the one behind you.”

Tiago grunts his approval. 

“And then... I'll take you,” James moans through gritted teeth as the blonde inserts his leg between his thighs. “Slowly... until you're sobbing, begging me to come...”

“Yes,” Tiago gasps. “I'll beg, is that what you want? To hear me beg for you?”

“You won't be able to help yourself,” James laughs breathlessly. “After I make you come all over your desk... I'll come inside you so hard, you'll be dripping, a gorgeous mess, dripping with me.” 

“That desk is an antique, you know. 17th century. Cherry with burgundy lacquer and worth more than I paid for this entire island and every drudge manning it.”

“I-I doubt...” James stutters as Tiago nips his way across his clavicle, “that it would take much to convince you.”

“I've thought about it once or twice.” 

“Thought about this often, have you? About me?” James asks, his hands by their own accord slipping up Tiago's back to tangle through thick, blond locks, marveling as it slips like silk between his fingers. 

“Yes,” he answers, blitzed, tilting his head back to allow the agent's exploring hands freer range. 

James, feeling cruel with curiosity twists his fingers firmly through Tiago's tresses before delivering a sharp tug, yanking him back to eye-level.

“How often?” he demands.

“Very,” The blonde admits honestly, voice hoarse with lust and emotion. 

Bowing forward, he rests his forehead against James', cupping the back of his neck for assurance. It's awhile before he speaks again and when he does, something in the air between them has mellowed. “I would guess we've both known more than our fair share of lovers before and between, but few have graced my bed more than once.”

“It all paled...” he shrugs. Leaning back, he traces a finger beneath James' bottom lip trailing it over his stubble before dropping his hand back at his side.

“They weren't you,” Tiago explains, “It was a futile effort... you know. All that physical stuff? So dull.”

Tiago pulls back, pulls away. “So dull... because that's all it was. It grew impossible to keep from wishing it was you, so I stopped wishing.”

James remains against the wall while his eyes follow the blonde across the room. 

Tiago unfastens his cufflinks and removes his tie pin, dropping them into a small porcelain bowl on his desk beside a translucent, rectangular paper weight. It catches the agent's eye, and peering at it more closely, he can see inside of it a small model of the Chimera. There's an inscription etched on the mount that's too small to make out.

Leaning against the edge of his desk, James sees Tiago close his eyes and suck in a deep breath. He exhales slowly before reopening them, fixing onto the agent with a serene sort of sadness. 

“You have to understand... to me, this,” the blonde explains, gesturing between them, “What you do to me, what you make feel... It's entirely unique. There is no one else. Not one other. Only you.” 

After a pause, Tiago drops his gaze to the floor, shaking his head. “Every moment we had... that I'd stolen...”

James watches the man loosen the windsor at his neck before slipping the tail through the loop. After pulling it through, he gives the tie a swift tug and at last it flies free of his shirt collar with satiny swoosh through the air. Methodically, he folds it and sets it aside.

“Every moment we shared...” Tiago says, glancing hesitantly up at James, “Watching the CCTV's, making sure you stayed out of trouble...”

“Well, someone had to keep an eye on you... naughty thing that you are,” He chuckles softly, amused by some private joke James will let him keep for himself. 

“So, I think it's rather obvious I've never stopped thinking about you,” Tiago finishes softly. 

Finding himself a little too moved by this admission, James ducks his head before he loses his composure, averting his eyes back to the glass rectangle. It's as good an excuse for distraction as any, really and by squinting, he can make out most of the letters: 'JB. Sempre em minha mente. Sempre no meu coracao.'

“Always in my mind, always...” James whispers, attempting the translation. He hardly realizes he's spoken aloud until Tiago assists. 

“Always in my heart,” he helpfully finishes. 

James struggles for words, and failing this, he leans back against the wall with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. 

“Always in my heart,” Tiago repeats softly and clearly, “And you always will be, regardless of your decision. Whether you leave here against me, or stay here with me.”

James eyes open to the peeling paint of the ceiling. He can't look at the man right now because he knows if he does he'll make a promise he can't keep. A promise he's not allowed to keep. 

“My entire empire and all that I have, all that I am is yours,” Tiago reveals, his voice stretching across the room to him, as if he's searching, reaching out for him. Longing for approval. Asking for reciprocation without requesting it verbally. 

“I... appreciate what you're offering,” he replies carefully, “But I can't.”

Tiago is quiet, he betrays nothing he's thinking and James is jealous of his ability since he knows he's failing considerably to do so himself. 

“You're lying to yourself and to me, Master Spy,” Tiago points out, “It's not so awful to admit it, go ahead. Try it out. You might find it's easier to tell the truth.”

James grits his teeth and pushes off the wall. He walks toward the blonde as reluctantly as he would to the scaffold. 

“This is hardly your execution,” Tiago snorts, reading his mind. The agent isn't surprised. He doesn't have the strength to keep it from illustrating his expression. 

“Yes, you're right,” James confesses, “I want... to be with you. Whatever that entails. But I can't on your terms.”

“Then what's the point of wasting any more time talking about it? I think we said all that needs to be said, ” Tiago states pointedly, perching on the edge of his desk. “We can't agree. So why are you still here?” 

That's a good question, the agent realizes unhappily. 

He thinks it's probably because he doesn't want to leave. He's found closure. He's found disappointment. But he's not yet ready to never see him again, he doubts he'll ever be ready. Leaving suddenly sounds like a more difficult task than any other he's ever been employed for. 

James is tired. He's tired of reliving his failure in this cyclical, aimless argument. He's tired of grieving the loss of something they could have had. He wants to blame Tiago, but he knows that that's a burden shared. 

He's drained and he has little left to give that hasn't already been put on the table, which is why he strolls around Tiago's desk, ignoring the blonde's bewildered gaze following him, pulls out the man's chair and takes a seat. He sinks his fatigue into backrest and closes his eyes, folding his hands in his lap. 

“I'm still here because I'm required to be,” James says wearily, following the explanation with a long sigh. “Because I've been out of contact, it's very likely they already suspect I've arrived at your base. I have a radio. 

“How quaint,” Tiago drawls, scooting off the desk. James watches the blonde calmly pace the floor, hands clasped behind his back, patiently awaiting elaboration. 

“When I send the signal, they'll scout your coordinates and send in the troops and round you into custody.”

“Obviously,” the blonde shrugs, “And obviously you'll proceed as they expect you to, of course.”

James stares at the man with a tense frown. “That's undecided but I'm leaning toward the affirmative considering if I don't, the blood you take will be on my hands.”

“In theory, there's always the chance I could change my mind about killing you,” Tiago suggests.

“In theory, sure, but save an unexpected shot to the head while my back is turned, the radio is in my pocket, and the helicopters are only a button click away. If I die, at least I know you'll still be locked away.” 

Hell, if he rigged it right and bribed Q a bit, maybe he could even see him again. 

Tiago slides his hands into his pockets with a casual air of nonchalance fixing at James a bland look that conveys very little as to how he's actually feeling. 

“Best be on your guard then...” he retorts. His tone is flippant with an undercurrent of something darker. “That is, since you've already turned your back on me.”

“If I had turned my back on you, then why would I have told you about the radio?” James counters. 

“Forget the radio, Mister Bond, you have to give me some credit. I hardly expected you to come here unequipped. I'm not as dense as I look, though I'm sure the blonde hair can be a little misleading,” Tiago snorts, “Which, by the way, I do plan to change back, I'm really not feeling it, you know? I think what they say about you blonde's having more fun is really a crock.” 

“It is a little unsettling,” James agrees, “I prefer your natural color. Besides, you wouldn't want to be accused of stealing my style.”

Tiago huffs indignantly. 

“Please, darling, as if any one would ever accuse you of having style.” 

“Class is hardly recognized by the Gauche,” James counters with leisurely arrogance.

“I like a little colour, we can't all be as funereal as you, sweetheart,” Tiago chuckles. “You know if you don't press that radio's little button I will.”

James sits up abruptly. 

“Why?” he asks, unsure if he's more skeptical or suspicious.

The blonde spins on the heal of his foot and claps his hands with a mirthful laugh.

“Indeed, Double-oh-Seven, allow me to reveal my entire master plan since you're clearly so supportive.”

James frowns, discomfited.

“Could you possibly take a seat?”

Tiago blinks. “I prefer to stand.”

The agent's unimpressed frown does little to sway him.

“You're standing up and I'm sitting-” James points out.

“What? Does it throw off the feng-shui, or does my impressive height intimidate you?” Tiago drawls unabashed, “Why don't you stand? Then we'd both be standing.” 

Exasperated, James drops his face into his hands, and Tiago pulls the seat from the corner of the room to the opposite side of the desk in proper conference form. It occurs to the agent that he's still usurping the boss side. 

Small victories. 

“Unfortunately, our conversation isn't quite over.” 

The blonde's exhausted, disgusted sigh speaks volumes and James can relate. 

“I never actually posed my offer,” he explains, “Which is actually, technically a counter-offer.” 

Tiago rolls his eyes and feigns a yawn, crossing his legs at the knees. 

“Such a diplomatic preface, I'm impressed.”

James stares down at his hands folded on the desk in front of him. 

“Technical accuracy, I'm not trying to spare feelings,” he coughs, “Back to the point. You suggested I work for your organization.”

“Not to split hairs, but as long as we're aiming for 'technical accuracy', I meant you'd work with me, not for me. Exclusively. As my partner,” Tiago clarifies, “Or in whatever capacity you prefer, of course. That is actually negotiable. Not that we're in negotiation anyway, you've made that abundantly clear.” 

James rubs a hand across his stubble, wondering how to proceed but Tiago jumps past him, saving him the hassle.

“No. I don't want to hear anymore. Stop beating a dead horse, James.”

“You prioritize revenge over my alliance.”

“You're not a necessity, James. As much as I want you, I don't need you.”

The answer is ruthless but it's not entirely honest. 

“Yes, I desire you, I want you back in my life. Simple as that. So simple,” Tiago gazes across at him sadly. “You're apparently as unswerving in your agenda, as I am in mine. You're torturing us both with this.”

“I can't support you,” James states with unapologetic conviction, “And if you see your plan through, then you've declared me your enemy.”

“Yes, I know, and I find that it's less irritating as much as it is an expected disappointment.”

With nothing left to lose, James throws his reticence to the wind and goes for broke. 

“If you need me to spell it out for you clearly I will,” he says softly but sternly, “I still love you, and I suppose I always have, lord only knows why, and I would drop it all. Everything could be forgiven. Clean slate. Leave the past in the past. I'd turn in my resignation and we could go away somewhere. Anywhere. It doesn't matter.”

“While that's a romantic proposition,” Tiago sighs, “We both know it's not a realistic one.” 

That's it. It's done. He's lost. 

James feels the heavy weight of depression drop upon him. 

“If you're finished giving Sisyphus a run for his money, may I make a counter-proposal?” Tiago asks quietly, reaching across the desk to cover James's hand with his own. 

The agent shrugs. “Why the hell not?” 

“If this is our last time together, then perhaps we should make it worth our while.”

James looks up at Tiago and finds him smiling softly. His eyes are warm and a little sad. 

“You make a compelling argument.” 

“Then what are you still doing on that side of the desk?” Tiago counters. 

“Also a valid point,” James nods, “I'll remedy that.”

The blonde's eyebrows shoot up as the agent pulls himself up over the desk in a well-coordinated leap that spares Tiago's assortment of pens and paperweights a disheveled fate. James seats himself on the edge with a smirk.

Tiago wastes no time stepping between his spread thighs and the agent locks his ankles around the back of the blonde's knees locking him in. 

Tiago licks his lips and the unconscious action betrays a hint of his nervousness. James finds it almost endearing considering the variety of indecency he'd displayed earlier. 

“For such a long time, I never thought I'd have a chance to kiss you again, and now that I do, and I know it's the last time I'll ever be able to...” Tiago explains before tapering off. 

“Then we'll make it worth every moment,” James assures him, assuring himself at the same time. Gently smoothing his hands up his lover's chest before wrapping them around his neck, he swallows thickly and glances up, meeting the blonde's eyes with steady determination and a heart beating hard and fast inside his chest. “We'll make it something worth remembering, Tiago.” 

Tiago sucks in a breath and rests his chin against James' forehead. 

“This should be easier than it is, but it feels like goodbye,” he says, voice thick and a little shaky. “Will you promise me something?”

James can't see his face at this angle, can't see his expression, can only read the desperation he can hear in his tone and it cuts him deep. 

“If I can I will,” he answers honestly. 

“It won't be long before you have good reason to hate me,” Tiago informs him, “But when that happens, try to remember I did what I had to. You'll believe it was entirely selfish. Try to understand that it wasn't. I can't explain everything to you now, you'd hardly believe me if I tried, but in time, if you ever learn all the facts, don't hold onto your anger.” 

James is holding his breath and trying not to clench his fists as he waits for the inevitable request. 

“If you can't forgive me, then at least promise me you'll remember that I've always loved you.” 

He finds himself nodding. He shouldn't be this terrified, but he promises. 

Tiago gently kisses his forehead. “Thank you.”

James pulls him down into a kiss because he's afraid if he doesn't he'll break. 

It's tentative and it's tender. Their mouths move softly, slowly against each other, rediscovering the contours, committing to heart the texture. James' is the first to part his lips and Tiago slips in, deepening the kiss until it becomes something intense and a little desperate. When they at last pull apart, it's nearly at the same time, both gasp, breathless. A few seconds of recovery is a few too many before they're both surging forward, reconnecting, tasting, claiming.

The second kiss is charged with heat, erotically sensual and then, overtly sexual. It's a battle for dominance, aggressive, devouring. Tiago hurriedly pulls at James' jacket and the agent fumbles to pull his arms out of the sleeves before attacking the blonde's. Both expensive articles of clothing given no heed, land to the floor forgotten. The blonde's vest is a maddening obstacle and the agent has thoroughly cursed every button before disgustedly flinging it out of their way and the shirts are next to go through quick, messy kisses before Tiago is yanking him off the desk, towing James along toward the sofa. 

Wrapped around each other they gracelessly tumble down into the cushions, tangling together in a frantic rush to satisfy the demand of the mutual obsession inflamed by a drought of too many years. 

Tiago is the first to tear away this time and James, frowns, watching him quizically as he rolls off the couch, landing on his knees before getting the message and spreading his thighs to allow the blonde to crawl between them.

Before he can proceed, the agent grabs him behind the neck and kisses him thoroughly once more, pouring as much emotion and gratitude into it as he can, because by God, if he hasn't imagined this exact scenario and replayed it countless times alone with his hand for company for far too long, and now that it's happening it's almost too good to be real, and with all his experience and the years that have passed, though he's never been so selfish as to finish too soon, he knows if Tiago's mouth takes him now it'll be over far too fast. He wants to appreciate every last moment of this, because there won't be another chance. 

Finally, with a single, close-lipped peck and a nip to his chin, Tiago pulls back with an adoring smile and nuzzles the inside of his thigh. James bites his lip, sucking it into his mouth with a groan as his lover buries his face into his groin, inhaling him through his trousers, his expression a cross between bliss and despair.

The blonde takes his time working the agent with his mouth, and James, feeling the hot steam from his breath wafting through the fabric, moans at the sensation, the vibration of his lips and finds his fingers tangling in Tiago's hair by their own accord, urging him on. 

After his lover expertly makes short work of his fly with his teeth, he motions for him to lift up a little to enable him to tug down the agent's pants the rest of the way. Naked and sprawled on the sofa before Tiago, he watches with a shiver of anticipation as his lover's hands find purchase on his hips. Entranced by the thrilling sight of the blonde finally leaning in to taste him, James sucks in a deep breath. 

Tiago licks him from root to tip with the flat of his tongue in slow, languid stripes before swallowing him down in one, smooth, effortless motion. 

The agent trembles almost violently as he's pleasured, awash in a flood of lust and endorphins, overcome with a love for this man so powerful, he could almost cry for it. 

Nearly as soon as Tiago has begun he's already pulling away and standing up. He grins at James reassuringly. “May have forgotten to grab something, I'll be right back, you stay put.”

Through a haze of arousal, the agent watches Tiago dart around his desk and yank open a drawer, rifling through the contents until he hears a sigh of relief. 

“Ah, it's old fashioned but it'll do,” he explains vaguely, unfastening the top button of his trousers. 

James nods dumbly, his blood flow focused elsewhere.

“God you're gorgeous,” Tiago breathes, kicking out of a pants leg, fully undressed and every bit as gorgeous in James' lightheaded opinion. 

“I want you inside me,” Tiago tells him bluntly before dropping his knees on either side of James and settling upon his lap. Watching the blonde carefully slick up his cock is almost too erotic to focus on. Tiago's touch is decadent, cherishing. With detail in mind, his palm sweeps over him entirely, pulling back his foreskin to expose his glistening head before circling around his slit with the pad of his thumb.

When the task is completed, he raises up a little, positioning James at his entrance and then slowly, slowly, slowly lowers himself down, shaking with ecstasy, looking as if the mere act of this is as heady as the sensations felt. 

When the agent is buried to the hilt, he breathes out slowly, relaxing in increments around him. 

“I almost forgot how... fortunate you are,” Tiago laughs a bit breathlessly, “Takes a moment to get used to.” 

James lazy nod is as much response as he can give, the feeling of being entirely encased inside of his lover's tight heat taking some getting used to for himself. 

After a moment, they find a slow rhythm and Tiago's erection having flagged slightly, perks up again immediately as James slightly adjust his angle. Gripping the blonde's hip with one hand and wrapping the other around the man's heavy cock dripping between their bellies, the agent leans up, searching for his lover's lips. 

This kiss is slow, sensual and wet and with a single upward thrust, Tiago is moaning helplessly, without inhibition into his mouth and rocking back, losing himself to pleasure. 

“Tiago,” James gasps, coming undone by the rapturous delight in his lover's expression. 

The blonde, mounted on top of him with his chin tilting toward the ceiling, arcing his back, erection straining, leaking over his fingers, absolutely slave to James' cock, sparks the fuse, and no longer able to contain himself, James speeds to the finish, rapidly working Tiago in time with his every thrust, until the blonde, is spilling in his hand and riding him hard over the finish. 

Tiago's mouth clamps over his own, swallowing his shouts as James jets multiple waves of come deep inside of him. 

At last, when he comes to, he drops back, boneless and amazed. He barely registers his lover pulling off before he notices he's been maneuvered down with Tiago curled around his back, one arm slipped beneath James' head and the other draped around his waist. 

The man nuzzles the back of his neck affectionately, sneaking an ankle between his own. 

It's intimate. 

It's wonderful. He loves Tiago beyond reason and he knows this will end badly.

He's still a fool.


	24. Chapter 24

After James finishes getting dressed, he settles back down onto the sofa, reflexively reaching up to rub the tight, cramping muscle in his damaged shoulder, breathing a small sigh of relief when it loosens. Sinking back into the cushion, he watches Tiago finish buttoning his vest before straightening his collar, glancing in the mirror to fix his cuffs. As he's doing so, he catches the reflection of the agent observing him and James knows he's been caught losing himself to his thoughts. 

“From here our paths diverge,” the blonde states, watching James watch him.

Until now, they've passed the last half-hour without exchanging a single word.

“I guess I couldn't fuck any sense into you then,” James jokingly retorts. He's not surprised to find himself unable to keep the bitterness from reaching his tone and Tiago catches it immediately, cringing.

“Don't you find your persistence just a teeny bit embarrassing?” He asks, buckling his belt as he turns back around. “That's not to say I don't find it sort of charming. Endearing even... in it's own, sad little way.”

“I don't like to lose.”

"To lose, there has to be a winner," The blonde muses, "And in this case, there isn't."

"Which is a choice you've made," James spitefully points out. "Are you so certain you'll survive?" 

Tiago considers this for a moment. "You're afraid I'll lose." 

“I'm more concerned you'll succeed,” James corrects.  

Tiago sighs, bowing his head. “I'm prepared to. I'll have done the world a favour.”

“From your misguided perspective,” the agent points out, “I don't doubt you've convinced yourself of that.”

“Hmm. She did a number on you. Trained you well, didn't she?” Tiago laughs.

“Whatever crime you could fathom to accuse her of, it isn't worth this," James explains, "And, yes, as much as I don't want you to succeed, I don't want you to lose either, because frankly, I don't want to see you die."

"Very unproductive concern, but I am, nevertheless, flattered,” he says, slipping on his shoes. “Rest assured I know what I'm doing. But either way, James, she destroyed my life, and she nearly destroyed it again when she ordered that shot. If not by the mercy of some higher power smiling down on you that day, you'd be dead. If I have to give up my life to ensure an end to hers, it will be worth it," The blonde declares with uncompromising resolve.

“She tried to do her job,” James defends. “I don't blame her. You'd have to be a fool to be in this line of work to be ignorant of the potential risks.”

“It amazes me how easy it is for you to gloss over the facts. Do you really think your life was worth sacrificing on a 50/50 chance to take out a small fry like Patrice? What benefit was there to kill him in the first place? Didn't you need to interrogate him?”

James frowns, frustrated by his inability to answer this. His eyes follow the blonde as he strolls over to his desk. Removing his laptop from the bottom drawer, he places it on his desk and turns it on, waiting for it to boot up.

“Think, Double-oh-Seven. Think like a spy. Look at the motive. Attempt to view this situation as you've been trained,” Tiago directs, turning the screen to face the agent as he navigates through his files on a quest to find something James can't begin to guess at. “What benefit is there if you die?”

“In the exceptionally unlikely circumstance that she knew Patrice's connection led to you, assuming she knows you're alive that is, perhaps she thought this would draw you out of the shadows,” James skeptically hypothesizes. “But that would presume she knew why my death would be the ideal lure.”

“Is this something you would put past her?”

“She's hardly omniscient,” he snorts.

“True, but she is informed,” Tiago counters. “This is a copy of a log extracted from M's private computer. It lists several less than conscientiously discreet entries you made into the home database in search of me. It dinged the radar.”

James flushes angrily, feeling unfairly violated but unsure of exactly by whom. In the end, he decides he's mostly frustrated by the inept effort he made to hide his research. “Fine, she figured out I knew of you. That doesn't mean she could know I knew you personally.”

“It wasn't a stretch to discover, James. You used company equipment to contact me. _Damnatio Memoriae_ : A simple retroscan. It's not your fault. I damned myself from first contact. It was a matter of time and I did so knowing full well from the start I might expose myself.”

“Why?”

“Because you fascinated me. I wanted to know what sort of man was clever enough to track me down and what sort of agent was stupid or desperately ambitious enough to do so in spite of the risk to his career, not to mention his life and liberty if caught. Raoul Silva was, after all, already making enough of a name in the underground to warrant a spot on International Watch,” Tiago explains. “The clincher was your personal investment. You suspected I was involved but she knew.”

“I fail to see how she could,” James rebuts.

“Well at first she only suspected Raoul Silva. But then, you were a step ahead at the time.”

“I suspected you.”

“And she suspected you knew something. You were far too eager for the chase. So, she did some homework. She connected the dots. You were absent for a few weeks too many with too convenient a cover story. A few bribes in Transnistria and the scent of British gold goes a long way. Voila! Raoul Silva is Tiago Rodriguez, alive and kicking! She saw the inherent danger I posed to her personally, naturally worked out my motive and perhaps she was grasping a little blindly in the dark but she's a canny old bitch and she knew me once very, very well. It wasn't too far a stretch to imagine you might prove a useful lure. No harm trying? Only your life, not hers after all. I promise you this. If you hadn't been shot that day on the train, she would've found another way to use you as bate.”

  
“Earlier today you accused her of sending me off to you today thinking I might likely die and now you're implying that she attributed to me a value high enough to lure you out. So which is it?”

“You're confusing yourself, darling. I'm not inferring she understood what the currency of your value was in my book, only that I had a book and you were in it. It was enough to risk your life if it could possibly save hers.”

James scowls down at his hands as Tiago laughs.

“She damned herself the moment she called the shot, my dear. At first I only planned to punish her a little. Humiliate her. I stole a hard drive containing the locations of a few agents she'd globally embedded in terrorist cells in a few NATO states because compromising MI6 security would expose her to accusations of mismanagement. A depressing ending to a long career. A blow to her pride.”

Tiago sucks in a breath. “But then I thought you were dead, so how could I be content to give her a mere slap on the wrist? Hardly enough to suffice. She had to pay and I thought it was past time for a little audit.”

“Christ,” James mutters, pulling a hand down his face.

“I know, she really signed her death warrant, didn't she?” Tiago chuckles. “So the bomb blows. She didn't immediately understand so I gave her a small nudge in the right direction.”

Tiago double clicks a file, launching a screen with an animated skull. 'Think on your sins' printed boldly flashes below.

“I've obviously seen it already. It's a pretty cryptic threat.”

“Ah, and strategically traceable by even the most amateur of codebreakers to my signature,” Tiago reveals. “She wouldn't have told anyone because that would have invited some uncomfortable questions. Far easier to send out a squad of assassins bent on avenging their colleagues. Basic tactical avoidance. Forgivable given the pressure of scrutiny she's under from above.”

“Why would you lift the mask on yourself?”

Tiago's eyes glitter darkly. “There is no satisfaction in revenge if your prey doesn't know why they're hunted.”

“This is all ridiculous,” James mutters, shaking his head. “Wild conjecture.”

“Is it?” The blonde counters.

“You clearly have a persecution complex.”

Tiago closes the laptop and stores it back in his drawer, humming idly to himself.

“The truth will out, as they say,” he muses looking back up at James. “And... I suppose time will tell.”

James sighs, pulling at a thread on the sofa before tucking it back between the cushions. “And so our paths diverge,” he mutters, bitterly mimicking Tiago's earlier sentiment.

“Unfortunately,” The man agrees, strolling back over. He sits down beside the agent but doesn't crowd into his space, leaving a respectable distance that he bridges only with his hand, placing it on the back of James' neck. His palm is warm. Comforting.

“I hate to think you'll leave here today determined to be my enemy,” he says, rubbing smoothing circles into the agent's tense muscles. “There's no profit in it for either of us.”

James shrugs it off as if it doesn't matter. “It is what you're determined to make it, Silva.”

Tiago recoils at the use of the alias, obviously hurt, and pushes himself out of his seat.

“Well, then I won't waste any more of your time,” he retorts, smoothing a wrinkle from his vest. “Perhaps it's time for something more productive. Press your button. Send in the cavalry and then if you would allow me to escort you back outside, I have something I want to show you before we say 'adieu'.”

–-

James follows Tiago out of the building and wincing at the abrupt transition into glaring sunlight fishes into the inner lining of his jacket in search of his sunglasses. A jovial, unfamiliar song floods around them, amplified through the old loudspeakers: it conflicts ironically with their decrepit surroundings.

“They left the island so quickly they couldn't decide what to take, what to leave, what was important,” Tiago explains in an even, measured tone, flocked on all sides by his guards as he leads James around the hovel of a gigantic, toppled statue. “And this, everyday, reminds me to focus on the essentials. There's nothing... nothing superfluous in my life.”

“When a thing is redundant, it is blip! Eliminated,” the blonde states with a dramatic flourish of his hand. James spots Severine ties to the stone behemoth, dried blood staining her mouth. She looks up at them coldly and while he pities her a little, in a distant sort of way, he doesn't feel sorry for her.

“50 year-old Macallan,” Tiago drawls, strolling toward a small table where he pours them both a drink.

“A particular favorite of yours I understand. Seems your taste has matured sufficiently since we've last met. You're an expensive guest, but why shouldn't we celebrate? Hmm? So, whats the toast?” he ponders, “To the women we love?”

The blonde clinks their glasses and James downs it, before setting it aside, watching as Tiago, smiling broadly, meanders leisurely toward Severine.

“Darling, darling your lovers are here,” James hears him coo before kissing the brunette with mocking ardor. He holds the shot of scotch up when he's finished and she leans forward as if to receive it when instead, he pulls it away.

“No. No, no no no no. Stand up straight, keep still and whatever you do, don't lose your head. Don't. Lose. Your. Head,” Tiago annunciates, balancing the glass on the top of her head with too gleeful a grin.

“Time to redeem your marksmanship scores,” he informs James. The agent, bracing himself defensively, frowns at Tiago, a little disturbed. 

“Let's see who can be the first to knock the glass from her head,” he challenges, handing James what he recognizes as a Percussion Cap Ardesa Dueling Pistol, an obvious reproduction but clearly pricey and probably ordered specifically for the occasion. “And just to be sporting, I'll let you go first.”

James catches out of his periphery one of Tiago's lackeys aim a glock at his back.

Because he has no other choice, the agent stares down his target: Severine, sans pretense, glares at him with a hostile sneer. James raises his pistol, cocking it.

“Let's see who ends up on top,” Tiago whispers, leaning in close, grinning slyly.

It throws him off his game as it's intended, and James hand, already unsteady from his recent injury, shakes even more from the stress. When he looks at her again, looks at her as she is, beyond the target he's supposed to hit, he sees her expression drain of hope. And numb, her eyes dim, resigning herself to her fate. She stands tall, holding her head still with admirable decorum and for a moment, the agent wonders what would happen should he decline the challenge.

He weighs the risk: Diverted paths. Enemies. The helicopters have been hailed and thus Tiago can commence with his plan. James wouldn't put it past the man to have him shot to get the agent out of his way. It wouldn't be lethal, but it would be certainly enough to temporarily disable. A discreet glance at the sky proves James' backup is yet to arrive, but at least he's always been good at improvising in a pinch. 

“Oh, I can't believe it. I can't believe it!” Tiago exclaims, sighing with exasperation, “Did you really die that day? Is there any, any of the old double-oh-seven left?”

The blonde glares at him critically, disgusted, and James spares him a sharp glance, presses his lips together and pulls the trigger.

The shot misses and the bullet ricochets off the statue, scattering a shower of dust into Severine's hair. She barely flinches, and with supreme dignity stares coolly back at her would-be assassin.

“My turn,” Tiago announces and raising his own pistol he pulls back the trigger and shoots his target cleanly through her skull. Severine instantly crumples at the waist, dropping over the ropes where she's bound and the glass of scotch topples, shattering to the ground at her feet. 

“I win,” the blonde reports, elated. “What do you say to that?”

James stares across at their dead target and sighs, feigning deep displeasure. “It's a waste of good scotch.”

With a surge of adrenaline, he slings around knocking the glock out of the lackey's hand, clocking him over the head with his pistol and lunges under his arm, using the man as a shield as bullets clip out of an automatic from behind. He ducks, lurching around and shoots the bastard out before whipping back around to finish off the guard behind Tiago. The startled blonde drops his weapon, gaping at him. 

Carnage at his feet and satisfied he's temporarily out of harms way, James looks across at Tiago with an accomplished smirk. His companion, however, is far less than amused. 

“Meu Deus! Are you mad?” Tiago demands, “You could have been killed, seu idiota! Que era apenas um jogo, how could you pull such a stunt?”

“I'm done with your games, Silva,” James replies coolly. “What point are you trying to make?”

Tiago glances down, brushing off his lapel with a casual air of displeasure before looking back up at him.

“Lord save us from your idiocy, meu querido, so ungrateful! So careless! After all the years I've toiled trying to keep you alive and you nearly get yourself killed by one of my own guns,” he mutters. “What was the point you ask? To prove my honor. If I say a thing, I abide by it. Everyone in my service knows that I stand by my word. My word is my bond. For example: you betray me you die. No exceptions.”

James huffs. “So this was some kind of warning?”

“No. No, my dear,” Tiago corrects. “This was a demonstration. Proving you can trust what I tell you. And when I tell you you're making a mistake, when I'm telling you you've misplaced your loyalty, you should believe me.”

“I believe that you believe everything you've said, Tiago,” James counters, “But just because you believe it doesn't make it true.”

With an exhausted, depressed frown, the blonde shakes his head and turns away, glancing up instead to watch the helicopters descend. The agent follows his gaze with a sigh of relief. 

\--

James follows M, escorted by a crew of armed guards down into the depths of the makeshift HQ bunker.

“Alright, time to say hello,” she announces before the gates open, allowing them inside. The chamber is dim with a few flickering fluorescents suspended from the ceiling. In the center of the room is a cylindrical, temporary containment cell of thick, transparent glass, James recognizes as a place reserved exclusively for interrogation of their highest priority, most dangerous, international war criminals. Tiago, incarcerated inside, owns the small space with a placid, meditative calm, barely registering their entry.

The man presents a bleak contrast to his former self of only hours ago: The dull, loose, khaki inmate garb strips him of colour, blending him in such a way that he's become as stark in appearance as the expression he inhabits.

Comparitively, M's expression as she approaches is almost as stoic: Her lips are pressed into a stern line and her posture is rigid and forbidding, but in her eyes, as she looks upon their captive, is a dread; a reluctance so foreign to the authoritative, fearless matron James is accustomed to he almost finds himself having to do a double-take to remind himself she's still the same person

M carries herself forward though her course is slowed by a reluctance the agent is sure only he's noticed, aware that the rest of their entourage have focused their attention to the man in the cage.

Tiago, at last, stirring from his trance, recognizes his visitors and instantly brightens, grinning broadly, affably. His eyes fix directly on M, sparing no interest for her company.

“You're smaller than I remember!” He exclaims delightedly.

“Whereas I barely remember you at all,” M coldly retorts.

“Strange. For me, it feels like yesterday,” Tiago remarks. There is something fascinatingly nostalgic in his tone and the agent marvels at it. He'd anticipated more antipathy, but this is something else altogether.

“Are you surprised?” the blonde asks, turning on his chair to grin down at M.

“Not particularly. But then you always were a slippery one.”

Tiago's grin reflected through the glass nearly sparkles.

“Maybe that's why you liked me so much.” 

“You flatter yourself,” M callously snaps back.

“Uff,” the blonde huffs, rolling his eyes, “No remorse... just as I had imagined.”

“Regret is unproffesional,” She informs him patronizing and unapologetic.

Tiago sucks in a breath and laughs. It's jarring because it's utterly disingenuous.

“' _Regret is unproffesional,_ '” he parrots back acerbically. “They kept me for 5 months in a room with no air. They tortured me. And I protected your secrets. I protected _you_. But they made me suffer, and suffer.”

Tiago's withering, accusing glare fails to move M, and all he receives in reply is hard, stoic silence.

“ _And suffer_ ,” he continues, unmerciful and determined, “Until I realized... it was _you_ who betrayed me.”

Still, M is unmoved. James feels his hands curl into tight fists at his sides.

“You betrayed me. So I had only one thing left,” Tiago grimly explains, “My cyanide capsule in my back left molar. You remember, right?”

Horror grows in the pit of the agent's gut as he listens, climbing into his throat. He swallows back the burn of it through clenched teeth feeling raw with anger. For as long as he'd always hoped to understand what happened, what ruined this man, he now wishes he could disappear from this desolate room, unhear the truth. But it's a sweet and bitter torment because the truth absolves and for once, James no longer feels the heavy burden of guilt for failing to fix the unfixable.

“So, I broke the tooth...bit into the capsule... and it...” Tiago trails off, faltering mid-sentence, dropping his gaze to his lap as the trauma relives itself in his head.

“It burned all my insides,” he explains distantly, lost in his ghosts and struggling to convey the depths of his agony through words alone.

His eyes are tortured and dark when he looks back up at M.

“But I didn't die,” he tells her, his grin chilling. “Life clung to me like a disease.”

James is a statue but inside he's in chaos.

There is a violence brewing just below the surface, and the more he tries to shove it back down, the greater he fractures. His endurance stretching to it's limit, he glances behind at the exit, longing to escape, to scream, to kill.

“And then...” Tiago whispers, sinking to the floor upon his knees, “I understood why I had survived.”

His grin is vacant but volatile like the eye of the storm.

“I needed to look in your eyes one last time.”

“Well, I hope it was worth it,” M states flatly. Tiago's eyes close, and James thinks he can make out a glistening of tears slip from their corners.

The captive smiles through his disappointment and nods, unable to speak, the words choking in his throat. James wonders if he'd hoped for some kind of confession of guilt or an apology. He knows he won't get what he seeks, but he can't help but wonder if it wouldn't change his mind. He watches helplessly as she fails Tiago for the last time. He watches it shatter him.

“Mister Silva, you're going to be transferred to Belmark Prison,” M informs him, “where you will be remanded in custody until the Crown Prosecution Service deem you to stand fit for trial-”

“Say my name,” Tiago interjects, pulling himself to his feet, his eyes flashing dangerous and dark “Say it. My real name. I know you remember it."

The way he stands before them, radiating with self-righteous fury, threatening and utterly eclipsing in his authority, makes it seem, for just a second, as if he's magicked away the glass between them, but still, M is undaunted.  

“Your name is on the memorial wall of the very building you attacked," She replies. "I will have it struck off. Soon, your past will be as nonexistent as your future.”

M's vindictive promise will be her downfall. She's provoked her own sure demise. James sees it in Tiago's eyes, burning with hatred.

“I'll never see you again,” she states, and confident she's had the final word, she turns away, intending to leave. 

Her captive, however, will have none of it. 

“Do you know what it does to you?” Tiago demands, “Hydrogen Cyanide?”

This does the trick. M peers back around, scowling but curious, watching as the blonde falls to a crouch to remove his prosthesis. James heart pounds rapidly in his chest as he sees Tiago's handsome face collapse without it's artificial structure. His cheek sinks grotesquely inward, pulling his eye into a droop. His mouth twists open into a parody of a smile, displaying the sparse, jagged and discolored remnants of a few remaining teeth. It's a final, tactical, desperate, ruthless and utterly disturbing ploy and it works.

“Look upon your work, Mother,” Tiago rasps.

M, mortified speechless, whips back around and stalks out. Her escorts flee after her, eager to be rid of the unsettling sight.

James stays.

The door slides shut.

They are not alone. A few guards remain standing at their post and in any case, James is not so naive to think there won't be manned cameras spying on their exchange.   

He watches Tiago reinsert his prosthesis. It snaps back into place and he laughs. It bubbles out of him, eerie and victorious.

James clears his throat, gaining the man's attention.

“Still here, Mister Bond?” He asks, sparing the agent an amused, detached glance. “What can I do for you?”

James scowls. “Exactly who's benefit was this particular demonstration for?”

“Not everything is always all about you, my dear,” Tiago smirks. “But I couldn't help but notice you, standing apart from the crowd. Looking so damn handsome and incredibly nauseous. Did you think you could hide from me, lurking in the shadows?”

“I didn't understand before,” James explains, understanding he's going to have to be vague and confident Tiago knows so as well.  

“Oh? And now you do, hmm? Are you thinking about coming over to the dark side?”

“My decision stands.”

“Ah, I see,” the blonde drawls, “At least I never put all my eggs in one basket.”

James folds his arms across his chest.

“The other option isn't off the table,” the agent obscurely reminds him, though in context, the meaning is transparent. And in this case, exclusively to Tiago.  

“Oh, but Mister Bond, it really and truly is,” he argues. “I'm sorry it has to be this way. I am. But I refuse to let her be your doom.”

“Don't do me any favours,” James sighs, shaking his head, “I can agree that what was done to you... was unfortunate-"

"Hah!" Tiago laughs, "' _Unfortunate'._ What a way to put it."

"I'm sure it's hard to see reason," James explains, "But it wasn't personal."

“Oh? Has she told you then? Have you asked her?”

“You espouse such inflexibility for redundancy and yet you think I should ask her? Do you really think she'll claim otherwise?"  

“You hit the nail on the head. That's the insidious conundrum: How can you believe me when you believe her? First of all, stop assuming the logic you appointed to the bullet that shot you applies here. You were wrong about that, and you are wrong still. You hold fast to this idea that you're dispensable, exchangeable... as if you have no higher ambition than being a pawn for the greater good, and while that's indisputably noble, my dear, the problem lies in who gets to determine what that is. She's convinced you that she's worthy to be trusted to make these decisions."

Tiago's forehead drops against the glass and he sighs, staring out at James with a tired frown. " She's unworthy of your faith in her. She was unworthy of mine. I don't doubt she'll have prepared an immaculate story for you, and she won't lie, but whatever she elects to say she will have tinted to paint herself in the best light."

"Naturally, I've already taken that into consideration," James assures. 

"I don't underestimate how clever you are," Tiago chuckles darkly, "But I don't overestimate her powers of persuasion either."  

With defeated resignation, the agent watches the kamikaze plummeting to his unavoidable demise.

"You're intolerably, stubbornly deluded," James accuses, "For your own good, and for the sake of us all, I hope to God you fail."

Tiago doesn't flinch. "Likewise, darling." 

 

\--


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: Please check the last scene of the last chapter before proceeding. It has been rewritten. I apologize for the inconvenience.

M looks up from her desk as James enters her office, having expected him. She motions for him to take a seat. He declines.

In spite of her diminutive stature, even seated as she is, she still retains her air of dominance.

“You've come for answers.”

“Obviously,” James clips back, recklessly insubordinate. M's finely manicured eyebrows raise in response to his tone but she does not correct him.

“His name is Tiago Rodriguez, but I tell you nothing you don't already know.”

The agent's unwavering stoicism refuses admission.

“This knowledge I've obtained recently and thus, does not yet reflect opinion, as the details of your association remain unclear to me,” she states. “What you know or may think you know, James, may cloud your perception, but as you are here, I presume your judgment is still sound.”

M studies him appraisingly. “Once, he was much like you are now.”

“He was a brilliant agent,” she explains, “But he started operating beyond his brief, hacking the Chinese. The handover was coming up and they were onto him, so I gave him up.”

James knows she's gauging him for response, but he's not that easy and she gets nothing in return for her effort.

“I got six agents in return and a peaceful transition,” she finishes.

It's a bittersweet victory and he's almost sorry he was right. James realizes he was hoping to find a flaw in her explanation, anything to convince him he was wrong, but it's so clear, cut and dry, that it confirms what he knew all along.

“It was for the greater good,” James mutters, half to himself. He's sure it comes off spiteful.

“It certainly wasn't _personal,_ as he'd have you believe,” M adds. “I don't regret the decision I made, but I do regret that I had to make it.”

–-

James paces in front of Tiago's cell as the blonde looks on with an amused, slightly bewildered expression.

“She told you exactly what she knew you had to hear,” the blonde concludes.

“I fail to grasp what you'd hoped to gain.”

“Indeed, you did fail to grasp what I'd hoped you'd gain.”

  
  


“Then enlighten me,” James bites out.

“What did she tell you about me?”

“That you were a brilliant agent and you overstepped yourself.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Tiago chuckles. “And look what she did to me, Mister Bond, look what she made me.”

James eyes flit up to the camera angled down at him, resenting the necessity for censorship. Tiago's gaze follows before returning to the agent, understanding completely.

“You'll never have my blessings,” he tells the blonde curtly.

“Thankfully,” the blonde sighs, shaking his head, “I don't require them.”

“I won't be your fool a second time,” James declares before taking his leave as Tiago's enemy.

–-

Tiago escapes.

James chases him, hot on his trail through the subterranean tunnels of the tube station twisting beneath London, and when he spots him shimmying up a ladder, he shoots; not to hit, but to halt, his bullets pinging off the metal rungs.

“Oh!” the blonde shouts, raising his hands in surrender.

“I won't miss next time, Tiago,” Bond warns.

Tiago laughs. “Not bad. Not bad, James, for a physical wreck.”

“Oi. Thank you,” James drawls, a touch offended.

“You caught me,” the blonde amends, with a small apologetic nod, “So that's something.”

“Come down.”

“So you can take me back to Mommy?”

“Not exactly what I was thinking,” James replies.

Earnestly confused and presently unarmed with his own gun still tucked inside the vest of his borrowed uniform, Tiago cedes, climbing back down. James drops his gun back to his side approaching the blonde halfway to the center of the dilapidated tunnel. “I demand a compromise.”

“Oh?” Tiago drawls, “What would that be?”

“Turn yourself in,” James instructs, his tone coming off more pleading than authoritative. He frowns at the blonde's chuckle and holds up his hand. “Hear me out.”

“We'll work to gather evidence,” He continues, holstering his PP7. “We'll contrive it if we can't find it. Stand trial. Take M down legally, she's already facing charges, it shouldn't take much to push her into custody. When we're finished, we'll arrange your escape.”

James offers his hand, holding it out to Tiago as he steps toward him. “I'll come with you.”

This punctures the veneer, and the agent watches Tiago's mocking grin wither away in the wake of the genuine affection he feels, moved by James' final, desperate gesture.

Tiago takes his hand turning it over. Gently, he raises it to his lips, delivering a tender kiss over James' knuckles, before sweeping him into his arms. The agent allows it, hoping he'll agree, but it's a fool's hope and they both know it.

“I won't make a fool of you twice, meu querido,” Tiago sighs, nuzzling his face into the side of James' neck. “You and I both know your little plan will neither work nor suffice for me.”

James drops his head weakly on the blonde's shoulder in defeat, closing his eyes against the pain in his heart.

“I hate you,” he mutters softly, wrapping his arms around his companion's back. As sincerely as he says it, he doesn't mean it and Tiago naturally hears the truth anyway.

“Why not sit this one out, meu amor? Wait on the sidelines and let me finish what I've started,” the blonde suggests, combing soothingly through the agent's hair. “When all is said and done, I'll send for you. And, if you come you come, if you don't you don't.”

“I can't,” James replies gruffly.

“I know,” Tiago sighs. “I know.”

If he could somehow wrangle the part of him that can't stop loving this man and kill it, he would, but he also thinks it might kill him to try.

“Time ticks on, my dearest James,” the blonde tells him, reluctantly pulling out their embrace with a chagrined frown. “I'm sorry to say it, but you have to let me go.”

“Actually, I don't have to,” James counters, drawing his gun on the man to make his point. Tiago smirks.

“But I know you won't shoot,” he chuckles, tapping the barrel.

“Not to kill,” the agent agrees, “but I will to disable.”

Tiago backs away, with his hands in the air.

“Fair point, James, fair point. Well, you caught me. And now, here's your prize,” he drawls. “The latest thing from my local toy store.”

James scowls, pulling back his clutch as Tiago removes a gadget from his pocket.

“It's called a radio.” He says before dodging behind the ladder as an explosion blows apart a hole in the ceiling. James ducks away from the rain of debris.

“Whew!” Tiago breathes with an excited grin.

The agent glances behind at the sparking wires before turning his attention back to the blonde, climbing back up the ladder.

“I do hope that wasn't for me,” he drawls wryly.

“No,” Tiago chuckles, shaking his head, “But that is.”

James follows his gaze back to the hole just as a train plummets off it's track in his direction. Bolting over the rubble, he manages to lunge out of it's path just in the nick of time.

He hears the train screeching as it jettisons through brick and mortar and when finally it comes to a halt, James whips up from his crouch, scanning past the wreckage for his quarry.

He's alone.

Spitting out a mouthful of grit, the agents puts away his gun and sweeps off the dust.

He thinks he knows just where to find his wayward captive. He only hopes he makes it there in time.

 


	26. Chapter 26

Fueled by adrenaline, James races to the courthouse where he knows M's hearing is taking place. He follows the bursts of gunfire down the corridor, praying he isn't too late.

Discreetly edging around the heavy wooden door with his PP7 cocked and ready, he peers into the chamber, locating Tiago amid the ensuing chaos and breathes a sigh of relief. He observes the blonde shoot down Mallory just as Tanner lunges over M, barricading her safely between the bar and the gallery.

Launching himself through the entrance, James lands into a crouch behind the nearby baluster and darts a glance around the corner to survey the scene. His eyes land of a guard slouched against the wall in the corner where he's been shot. Nervously, he watches the man seize on the convenience of having been forgotten in the havoc of crossfire shakily leveling his SIG at his exposed target.

James glimpses Tiago stalking down his prey, oblivious to the threat and quickly hunts for his accomplices, who he observes are so fully entrenched defending themselves against the barrage of security flooding in, they've been forced to momentarily abandon their employer, rendering him vulnerable.

The agent mutters a curse through gritted teeth, reluctantly knowing he doesn't have a choice.

Concealed in the erupting anarchy, James sends a treasonous bullet between the guard's eyes, splattering his brains against the mahogany wainscoting just before the man pulls his trigger. The shot barely misses Tiago, tearing instead through the front panel of the Judge's bench. The blonde ducks from the shrapnel of debris, flinching as chips of wood and sawdust explode out at him and this second of distraction provides the agent the precious seconds he needs to suss out a plan to prevent a full-out massacre.

He knows an immediate diversion is necessary: Tear gas would be ideal, but in a pinch, he improvises a substitution.

Scanning across the room, James locates two fire-extinguishers on either side and swiftly unloads a single bullet into each canister. A spray of liquid nitrogen floods throughout the chamber, safely obscuring all it's occupants while simultaneously foiling Tiago and just before it entirely cloaks his view, he sees the blonde's face twist into a bewildered, furious scowl, knowing he's lost his opportunity.

Winding his way through the ambling exodus of the mob blindly tripping over themselves to flee, James quickly ejects his spent magazine, tossing it to the floor. Glancing back up, he sees the blonde squinting through the immersing haze in search of the perpetrator. The moment the agent finishes reloading, he slides the clip back into it's chamber and it clicks into place, giving away his position.

Tiago whips around as James steps into the clearing, facing him squarely with an unsurprised smirk.

“Ah, I knew you'd come to join the party.”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” James retorts, grinning triumphantly.

Tiago darts a glance down at the PP7 the agent holds steadily aimed at him and his eyes flash with contempt.

“Are you really going to shoot me?” the blonde snorts, “Do you really have it in you?”

Glad of the pandemonium lending them temporary privacy, James cocks his gun, strolling forward.

“Give up now or you leave me no choice.”

“I'm shaking in my shoes!” Tiago chuckles. “Daft, James! Utterly daft! Even if you somehow manage to remand me right here and now into custody, I've secured multitudes of fail-safes to ensure she still dies.”

“I'd just, much prefer to do it myself, you understand,” he adds. “Here's an offer: I'll give myself up the moment she's dead. I'll even let you take credit. You can hand me in yourself.”

Unconvinced, James shakes his head. “Not even close to an option.”

“Ah, you disappoint me,” Tiago replies through an exasperated sigh.

James raises his PP7, aiming for a kill shot. It fails to impress.

“Go on, Double-oh-Seven,” the blonde goads, swaggering forward with his hands raised in mock surrender, “Here I am. Shoot me.”

“Well, if I have your permission,” the agent shrugs, dropping his aim and firing.

As expected, Tiago dodges out of the way of the bullet intended for his kneecap and it splinters instead into the paneling behind him.

"Ooh! So close!”

James shoots off another, forcing the blonde to glance to the side, grinning as he watches him nearly stumble down the steps of the platform.

"Wow! Just missed me that time!" The agent sighs and readies his aim for a third shot.  

“Mercy! Mercy!” Tiago cries, laughing so mirthfully he has to grip the banister to steady himself. "Enough is enough!"

“But in all seriousness. Was that truly the best you can do?” he asks, looking back up at the agent. “Either you're just that lousy a shot or you must really love me!”

“Certainly enough to stop you,” James declares, re-cocking. “And if I don't, they will,” he adds, nodding to the vapor-cloaked gallery where the blind, clambering guards are searching for their quary amid the riot of shooting and screams.

“As much as I'd love to see you try,” Tiago chuckles, dancing backward, “I'm truly sorry, Mister Bond but as you've pointed out, I just don't have the time right now to play.”

“Catch me, if you can, darling,” the blonde chirps, leaping into the dense fog. Heaving a frustrated grunt and cursing himself for allowing the bastard such an easy escape, James takes off after him, hastily feeling his way through the courtroom.

Spotting a blur of a blonde in a uniform whip behind the door of the atrium, he makes chase, hot on his heels. Tiago sprints down the corridor, narrowly averting the rounds the agent fires after him before lunging around the corner just as a team of officers pile through, stampeding forward to form an untimely obstacle dividing them.

James struggles his way against the grain, watching helplessly as Tiago spins around to wink at him victoriously before leaping down the stairwell into the vestibule.

James peels out the exit after him but he's too late, catching only a glimpse of a hijacked H.A. Land Rover squeal it's getaway around the corner out of sight. Beneath the din of whining sirens, the agent quickly assembles a workable plan. He knows Tiago is a volatile combination of deranged and relentless: Convinced eliminating M will save lives while heedlessly taking out scores of victims along the way is hypocrisy at it's finest.

With a sinking sense of dread, he knows that whatever it takes, he has to put an end to this and as much as he'd love to spare the only two people in his world he really cares about their fate, the probability of saving them both is low. At best, he can save M and ensure Tiago is locked away.

At worst...

He can't dwell on that now. The only feasible solution is locking Tiago away to protect the madman not only from taking out M and the innocent lives that will fall between them if he doesn't, but from himself as well. He remembers vividly the self-destruction his lover indulged in and knows that if the man fails to have his way, left to his own devices he'll revert right back to it. Without intervention; _without James_ , he'll kill himself.

However, if he is incarcerated in Belmark, the agent realistically knows that sans a prohibiting injunction from high above which he won't receive, he'll be permanently isolated from the rest of the prison population. Doomed to the shoe, he'll have no outlet to organize his escape. What concerns James about this is that this sort of hopeless detainment will undoubtedly wreck havoc with his sanity and incur terrible, further damage; his psyche, already warped as it is from the trauma suffered in the wake of his survival at the brutal hands of his former captives, will be rendered unsalvageable because though his external scars may be healed, inside, they still blaze fresh as if it were all only yesterday. James, with a heavy heart, knows this fate will prove less merciful than the death he longs to spare him from.

Grasping at straws, James plucks one from the stack, pondering if perhaps anonymously, from the outside and on the sidelines, if he can lobby on Tiago's behalf and arrange his transfer to some kind of psychiatric facility instead. It might be tricky, but James is good at tricky. And with a small spark of desperate optimism he doesn't have time to overthink, he allows himself to see a future where this all comes to fruition; a future where Tiago recovers under sound treatment; a future where James can then orchestrate his release. Obviously, he'll have to take an illegal route, and undoubtedly he'll damn to hell his career, but then, mandatory retirement looms before him in the upcoming years anyway, and besides, there's a plethora of tiny, tropical islands they could happily retire upon together.

The word 'together', even if it's reality lies somewhere in the future tense, is enough to spur him forward and the agent's objective is clear: Eluding MI6 involvement and using M as a lure, he'll go off the grid. This will limit the number of casualties as well as increase the odds of Tiago's survival.

He has only one certainty and he's prepared to bet his life on it because the value Tiago places on James' life is the only thing in this world that exceeds the value in taking M's.

He lacks the proper equipment, but he's sure he can rig up something from what he's got. It won't be easy, but thankfully, hot-wiring Tanner's armored Audi is.

James watches through the tinted glass as Tanner escorts M outside, and once the door of the Avant B7 is safely shut behind her, the agent puts pedal to the metal, flooring through the narrow clearing, swerving around the teams of police cars rushing to the scene.

“007, what the hell are we doing?” M demands, “Are you kidnapping me?”

“That would be one way of looking at it,” he replies nonchalantly.

After a few seconds of waiting for a response to this that never comes, James darts a glance to the backseat where M sits with a pensive frown as she stares out the window at the blur of London passing by.

“Too many people are dying because of me,” she muses ruefully.

“If he wants you, he'll have to come and get you,” The agent tells her. “We've been one step behind Silva from the start. It's time to get out in front. Change the game.”

“And I'm to be the bate?”

James fixes a look at M via the rear view mirror, catching her eyes. He doesn't have to tell her there's no alternative.

“Alright. But just us. No one else,” she demands, conceding.

“Q, I need help,” James tells the Quartermaster through his earpiece.

“I'm tracking the car,” the man replies sounding worried, “Where are you going?”

“I've got M,” the agent explains, “We're about to disappear.”

“What?”

“I need you to lay a trail of breadcrumbs impossible to follow for anyone except Silva. Think you can do it?”

“I'm guessing this isn't strictly official.”

James smirks. “Not even remotely.”

“So much for my promising career in espionage,” the agent hears him mutter.

–-

Night has fallen by the time they arrive at the private storage facility where James rents his off- record garage.

“Well I'm not hiding in there, if that's your brilliant plan,” M huffs, following the agent to the entrance.

“We're changing vehicles,” the agent explains. “The trouble with company cars is they have trackers.”

After unlocking the back door, they enter inside where James' 1965 silver Aston Martin DB5 glistens before them in all it's glory. M eyes it skeptically.

“Oh, and I suppose that's completely inconspicuous,” she drawls.

“Get in,” he orders, nonplussed by her less than grateful attitude.

They peel out of the garage and James navigates through the backstreets, sparing focus only for the route ahead while keeping a paranoid vigilance, his chest tight with the fear that they could still be followed, though he's not unaware of M's judgmental observation as she keeps mental tally of how frequently he checks his side mirrors. It's a godsend she doesn't ask the question he knows she's bound to be wondering about. It would be easy to tell anyone else the half-truth of why he's avoiding MI6' involvement; Q bought it wholesale, but M is a tough customer with a canny nose for tiny lies and as little detail she has to work on regarding the agent's prior connection to Tiago-- she knows of it, and that is more than enough to rouse suspicion.

“Not very comfortable is it,” M remarks, shifting in her seat.

James eyes narrow at the criticism. With a flip of the lever, he pops open the top of his clutch and places his thumb threateningly over the uncovered button.

“Are you going to complain the whole way?” he asks, glimpsing her pinched, indignant frown.

“Oh, go on then,” she huffs, shrugging ambivalently, “Eject me. See if I care.”

James can't help the small curl of a smug grin at her expense, satisfied he's made his point.

“Where are we going?” M finally asks.

“Back in time,” the agent responds, “Somewhere we'll have the advantage.”

–-

Dawn breaks as they approach the remote, desolate valley on the cusp of James' homeland.

He gets out of the car and takes a few steps forward, gazing out at the road ahead before M joins him. The rolling hills are entrenched in a blanket of heavy mist hanging low over the rocky hills. The sky is bleak and the late-winter air is crisp.

He loathes it with every fiber of his being but he conceals it well from scrutiny; M reads it plainly anyway. Mercifully, she spares him a sliver of dignity and turns her eyes back to the landscape.

“Is this where you grew up?” She asks softly.

“Mm,” James intones vaguely.

“How old were you when they died?”

“You know the answer to that,” he replies. “You know the whole story.”

M sighs.

“Orphans always make the best recruits,” she explains and James hears in this the subtle confession of her sins.

“Storms coming,” he tells her before turning back to the car.

–-

Around noon, they arrive at Skyfall, their entrance heralded by the weathered statue of a stag standing proudly on it's pillar, fixed to mark the start of the vast estate tied to James' title.

Following down the barren, wind-worn trail winding through the rough terrain eventually leads them up to the front of his ancient, ancestral manor where the agent parks and gets out. M stands beside him, and together they peer up at the gothic, crumbling facade looming before them, neither over-eager to go inside.

“Christ,” M says and James agrees with the sentiment.

“Mm-hmm.”

“No wonder you never came back,” she remarks following the agent in through the entrance.

Leading her down the front hall, he hears an intake of breath as M marvels at the interior architecture that's still well preserved though covered in a thick film of dust that's settled over time within the crevices of the ornate, carved paneling.

James shivers at the chill in the air as he looks around at the shell of his childhood home, observing the bookcases lining the walls; their shelves empty, the cast iron light fixtures suspended from the ceilings have been draped in sheets for protection casting eerie shadows over the few pieces of furniture that haven't yet been put into storage or sold. There is even a few items of his family's belongings still present as well, only vacant of personality, like artifacts in a museum. It's all almost the same and yet similarly unfamiliar, but memory fills the in the rest, lending him the ghosts of how it used to be and he feels strangely unsettled by the hollow quiet filled only by a pervading sense of sadness.

Ironically, he's reminded of the time he once compared a man to his home; how he insisted Tiago's was like a biography, an unintentionally symbolic mirror, and now, as he takes in his surroundings, he can't help but wonder just how this now applies to himself. What it would say about him.

Just then, a figure appears from the shadows entering the drawing room with a rifle, shaking the agent out of his morose reverie.

“James,” the stranger states, “James Bond.”

James blinks with confusion before at last recognizing their intruder.

“Good God. Are you still alive?”

“Well,” the old man replies, approaching with a pleased smile, firmly shaking his hand, “It's nice to see you, too.”

“M, this is Kincade,” the agent explains, “Gamekeeper here since I was a boy.”

“Pleased to meet you, Emma.”

Kincade grins charmingly, reaching forward to take her hand before turning back to James.

“You're a tad late,” he tells him, “They sold the place when they thought you were dead. Seems they were wrong.”

The agent chews on this, having not taken that into account before coming here. In any case, it will hardly make a difference.

“What are you doing here?” Kincade asks.

“Some men are coming to kill us,” James replies, “But we're going to kill them first.”

The old man, to his credit, doesn't disappoint.

“Well, then we better get ready,” he declares.

“Do we still have a gun room?”

“Ah,” Kincade frowns, leading them to the place in question, “They sold the lot to a collector in Idaho or some such place. They were shipped out weeks ago. There's just your father's old hunting rifle.”

“We couldn't let that go,” he says, handing over the 12 guage double-barreled shot gun.

“And this is what we've got,” M replies flatly, unimpressed.

“There might be a couple sticks of dynamite from the quarry,” Kincade suggests, removing all the weapons stored in his coat and placing them out on the table.

“But if all else fails,” he adds, glancing down at the row of utility blades and hunting knives, “Sometimes the old ways are the best.”

James agrees, picking up the fixed-blade damascus knife and pocketing it. Also, the explosives will definitely work better than borrowing the thermite from M's laptop.

“Do you have a plan or are we supposed to wing it?” She asks him.

James smirks back at her and turns to Kincade. “Fetch the dynamite.”

The old man nods and takes his leave while M's eyes never leave the agent.

“And what do you propose we do with it?”

“Well, actually,” James explains, “I intend to strap a few sticks under my shirt.”

M stares at him blankly.

“You can't be serious.”

“Oh,” The agent chuckles softly, “I quite am.”

“And what then?” She demands, placing her hands on her hips. “Are you going to blow yourself up and leave me to save the day myself?”

“It won't quite work like that,” James replies. “You see, if I die that's because you will have already done so yourself. I plan to set a timer to trigger the explosion if your heart stops.”

The agent unfastens his watch and passes it to her.

“It responds to a cardio monitor. The type used for endurance training. I always carry it,” he explains. “I'll attach it to the strap and wire it to trigger the dynamite. You'll wear the watch.”

“So you'll die if I die,” M snorts. “While I appreciate your chivalry, I hardly see how it's productive.”

James sighs, knowing his explanation is necessary, but also knowing just what secrets it will confess. “My intention is to ensure that Tiago knows about it beforehand.”

M is silent.

“I have the number to his private mobile. I'll send him a text when he arrives.”

James attempts to gauge her reaction, but fails to. M is disconcertingly expressionless as she relays this information and he wonders what she's hypothesized.

“Alright,” she says finally, fastening the watch and pushing it up her small wrist before looking back up at him with stalwart determination. “We'll do it your way.”

“I just hope he loves you more than you think he does,” she adds.

“I share that hope,” James admits.

M stares at him with a hard frown.

“I think you should know I disapprove.”

Stung, the agent turns away, glaring out the window. He knows she's not so old-fashioned to have any real hangups about his relations with another man, and more so, he especially knows she'd hardly happily endorse it with a madman out for her blood, but the last thing he needs right now is her condemnation.

“You can't blame me,” M huffs, “If I should die, James, then so be it. But you're still in the prime of your life and I'd hate to think you'd waste it. I'd rather you survive to avenge me.”

The agent sucks in a breath as he realizes what she meant. It forces him to reevaluate his opinion of her and he chastens himself for thinking less of M than she deserves so he decides in compensation to tell her the truth.

“If you're really concerned, there is no way to wire the monitor for detonation. I lack the proper tools,” he explains.

“It's a bluff,” she gasps. “Well you're very cruel to have mislead me in the first place, but at least you're clever.”

–-

its a team effort to boobytrap the entire house and by the time they're finished, the sun is already slipping behind the hilltops.

James and Kincade stand sentinel at the windows, gazing out at the moor for any sign of Tiago's arrival while M sits on the couch with a downcast, troubled expression.

“I fucked this up, didn't I?” she asks.

“No. You did your job,” James reassures, turning toward the spiritless old woman, noticing her age more truly than he ever has before.

“I read your obituary of me,” he informs her. Finally, this draws her attention up to him.

“And?”

James smirks. “Appalling.”

“Yeah, I knew you'd hate it,” M replies quietly, “I did call you an 'exemplar of British fortitude'.”

“That bit was alright.”

The distance sound of hounds suddenly barking in the distance alerts them back to focus.

“You ready?” James asks.

“I was ready before you were born, son,” Kincade replies.

–-

Silva's men are easily taken down, until the last. James run to the back of the house, bolting into a dark room where he sees M exchange a round of fire with a masked assassin. Quickly, the agent shoots him down with his freshly acquired assault rifle and the man falls. Whipping back around to M he sees her sag against the wall.

“You hurt?”  
“Only my pride,” she tells him. “I never was a good shot.”

After ensuring her safety he rushes over to his victim, his heart racing as he strips him quickly of his mask. Unable to identify the man, James sighs and wipes his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

“He's not here,” He informs M, “He's not here.”

She spares him only a concerned, discomfited frown, understanding the reason for his nervous relief and not liking it.

Suddenly hearing the far off sound of an approaching helicopter stops him in his tracks, and abandoning M the agent races back out to the front room to peer out the window.

Low in the sky, an amplified song pours from the speakers, becoming louder and clearer as the helicopter descends.

'Boom, boom, boom boom! I'm going to shoot you right down! Take you in my arms! I'm in love with you!”

James cringes. Well as far as public declarations are concerned, Tiago's takes the cake.

“Always got to make an entrance,” he sighs before turning to Kincade and M standing in the entryway.

“You two, go to the kitchen. Now,” he orders before using the butt of his rifle to smash through the window. Taking aim, he fires several rounds of warning shots off at the AW101.

Fishing into his pocket he pulls out his mobile and texts Tiago: 'Kill M, I die too. Strapped with TNT.'

A few seconds later, his mobile chirps and anxiously, he pulls up the new message, heart in his throat.

'Nice try.'

James growls in frustration, quickly typing in his response when a second message arrives before he can send it.

'Move sternward, ASAP.'

Not 3 seconds later, a torrent of bullets shred through the front, chasing the agent into the back.

Lunging to safety behind the stairwell, James glares out the window as the AW101 sweeps around the side. Angrily, he shoots off several more rounds at the bastard before dodging back behind the wall and whipping out his mobile.

'Sternward? House, not boat.”

Tiago replies immediately: 'House? Looks like rubble. Want boat instead?'

James frowns thinking about the lovely Chimera and inevitably, imagines sharing a drink on the deck with his lover. The helicopter takes out the wall, kicking him back to grim reality and he's reminded that now they're enemies.

“Go to the chapel. Use the tunnel,” he directs Kincade. M clutches her arms around herself as the old man escorts her out.

The helicopter at last lands, and James runs down the hall, smashing shattered glass beneath his boots as he keeps watch out the broken windows. The hatch lowers and Tiago exits, trailed by a company of lackeys armed to the teeth.

The agent furrows his brow with confusion as the blonde tosses something into the entrance. It rolls down the steps to James' feet, and suddenly recognizing it, he whips around to leap away but the grenade explodes too soon and the fiery blast throws him backward. Quickly clambering back up, he ducks away as further explosions tear apart the walls.

James sprints toward an overturned bookcase, and gasping, behind his temporary shelter he looks himself over, scowling at the singed laces on his new boots. Recovering his breath, he glances back outside.

Tiago's men stand in formation around their commander. His blonde hair whips around his head in the hurricane of wind from the propellers as the helicopter lifts once again, into the air.

“Everyone, listen to me. Don't you dare touch her! She's mine!” James overhears him order. “And most importantly, contain the agent but do not harm him or you'll pay with your life.”

James huffs thinking for as much as Tiago professes to care, he's tossed an awful lot of fire at him recently.

“Can your friend come out and say hello?” He hears the blonde shout in through the window. A second later-- explosion and the entire room is crackling in flames. He's not surprised. More so, he's glad he had the foresight to make a hasty exit beforehand.

As the manor burns around him, James thinks he's not very sorry to see it go. What pleases him less, however is watching Tiago blow up his Aston Martin.

'Fucker!' he angrily texts.

A second later he receives a reply: 'Was fun! Should try sometime!'

James might have to kill him.

Apparently Tiago realizes this, sending him a followup.

'I'll order you new one.'

It's not enough to dissuade the agent from a little revenge, however. Setting up fuses on two, large old tanks in his living room, he strikes a match and lights them, quickly rushing into the priest hole before the entire house blows, taking down the helicopter with it.

A fiery inferno chases James down the tunnel. He lunges away just before it consumes him. He remains laying on the ground for a moment longer and thinks that if he never sees fire again it will be too soon. His mobile chirps.

Honestly, he's surprised it can still get a signal this far under rock.

'I really hope you haven't killed yourself just to get back at me for blowing up your car.'

James decides to punish Tiago before reassuring him he's still alive, waiting a full 3 minutes before responding.

'Can't make it too easy for you,' he sends when he imagines the blonde has suffered sufficiently.

Almost a minute passes before Tiago replies.

'Don't scare me like that again, do you want me to have a heart attack?'

'That would be convenient right about now.'

'You say the sweetest things.'

James grins, feeling petty. 'How's your helicopter?'

'Cooked overdone. I think we can call us even.'

James laughs in spite of himself.

Getting up, he brushes himself off, sucks in a breath, and charges down the tunnel back to the exit.

Out in the dark, the Bond manor burns, lighting the moors in an orange glow and the agent streaks through the night, taking out Silva's oblivious men one by one on his way to the chapel.

When he gets to the lake, he stops. It's frozen over, so he chances sprinting across, praying it doesn't break before he reaches the other side. He stops in his tracks when he hears several bullets pierce through the surface just behind him.

Spinning around, he sees Tiago approach through the edge.

“You see what comes of all this running around, James?” The blonde asks, slightly out of breath and looking windblown, a little charred and very disheveled. “All this jumping and fighting... It's exhausting!

Tiago sighs.

“Relax,” he instructs him, “You need to relax.”

“Believe me, I wish you'd let me,” James huffs.

The ice cracks a little somewhere behind him, and the agent turns around to find one of Tiago's men approach with his rifle.

“Now, my dear, my friend here won't touch a hair on your pretty head as long as you take off the dynamite you've strapped to yourself,” the blonde tells him. “If you don't obey, he'll shoot you in the foot and do it himself, and really, I've seen you hobbling about enough for one life time, so please, do as your told.”

James knows that if he complies it will free Tiago to kill M, and it's not that what he does next isn't rash, it's just that it seemed like the only tenable solution in a very complex situation.

Seizing the lackey's gun, causes the man to reflexively pull the trigger, shooting out the ice from under their feet. It shatters away instantly, plunging them both into the frigid water beneath.

In a fight to swim to the surface, the lackey pulls James back under, and startled, he swallows a gulp that nearly catches down his lungs and deciding today is not going to be the day he's going to drown in liquid Arctic, the agent locks the bastard in a chokehold until his eyes gloss over and when he looks good and dead, he releases the man to drift away, sinking down to the bottomless black below as he swims desperately back up.

He's not certain he'll make it, and the world around him begins to fade at the edges before a fist grabs firmly, wrapping around his wrist to yank him out.

James gasps, choking in as much oxygen as he can as Tiago lowers himself to a crouch in front of him to hold him steady.

“That was a very stupid thing you did, my dear,” he tells him.

Something snaps, and the agent suddenly feels as cold inside as he does on the outside. He shivers and his companion reaches forward, intending to wrap him against himself for warmth but James pulls away before he's able

“It doesn't matter,” he coughs, shaking his head, “It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me, James,” Tiago insists.

The agent laughs. It sounds off, and has a strangely vicious edge to it.

“You're a liar,” he spits and Tiago blinks, bewildered.

“Did you take a knock to the head when you were under that ice? I love you,” the blonde reminds him, “You wouldn't be still alive and neither of us would be here right now if I didn't.”

“You think you do, but it's not real. Just like everything else, it's a lie. You lie to yourself. You think you love me?” James spits out caustically, “You're not capable of it. If you were, we wouldn't be here right now. You would see what a mistake you're making, but you don't, I think, because you can't.”

“Oh, meu querido,” Tiago sighs, releasing the agent's shoulders and standing up. “You can't break me, you see, because I'm already broken."

James heart breaks too, but he says nothing, watching his lover walk away.  


	27. Chapter 27

Tiago's dreams are the same as they've always been; rarely literal-- however, he understands the symbolism better these days.

For too long he chases the dragon until it starts chasing him and though, while at one time in his God-forsaken life he might have gratefully let it consume him, the world begs him for redemption, dumping on his doorstep a beacon of hope in the form of one man, one soldier, one hero and for his sake, for James, Tiago goes a la canona.

It nearly kills him in the process.

Every day of denial the needle calls for him. He aches for it and the ache becomes illness. 

Every day he writhes and cramps, every day he is sick and he nearly gives in.

Every day he resists and the talons retract a little more, but as his body and mind excise itself of it's poisons, it leaves behind an absence that madness eagerly sweeps in to replace. His dreams launch him back to the clearing where he once stood before a wide abyss, only now, the ground has sealed itself. It's a damn good thing because he has nothing left to give it; James the Errant Ace of Hearts has stolen his, but his knight is nowhere to be found when Tiago is seized and dragged back to the dungeon. It's as if Pandora opens the box, and what's repressed resurfaces, the chaos unleashed explodes out of dormancy with wild abandon in vivid, violent detail, but he endures, resigned as the same, nightly, faceless devils crowd around to steal their pound of flesh.

He jolts awake, dripping with sweat, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, but even in these few spare moments of consciousness, reality warps; bending the shadows into horrific phantoms with long, black spider-like arms that descend around him. Always, he's paralyzed, struggling helplessly as they drag him back into their rambling realm of nightmares.

He does eventually kick the needle, and in his dreams every now and again he revisits the grave where the beast lays slain, it's corpse a desiccated shell of brittle parchment stretched over bone, it's death a symbol of his victory, but it's too premature to celebrate: Old habits die hard and substitutions are made to accommodate the new vacancy. He picks up the mantle of his alias, dusts it off and becomes Raoul Silva. The identity subsumes him and he works constantly, expands his global network driving his rivals into the ground. He'd have a monopoly save for SPECTRE, whom vast and volatile is always lurking in the periphery. When he refuses their merger they send their spies after him. He spares no one. His code is absolute.

He teaches everyone to fear his name and in turn, Raoul Silva, in small increments siphons away his humanity. He no longer wears a mask, but the face he wears is no longer his own.

Business thrives; he's a success, but while it bears superficial reward, it won't sustain because at his core, though he knows it was necessary for survival, Tiago hates what he's become and he never forgets who to thank for it. He will never forget his raison d'etre-- either of them.

Someday, Silva will give Tiago the justice he deserves. Someday, he will strip M of her pride and he will feast on her shame. Someday, he will be able to retire and return to himself.

If he still is able-- which he often doubts.

Meanwhile, he spies on James from afar. He tries to convince himself that his motivation is honorable; after all, his watchful eye saves the agent from many a scrape over the years.

Always though, there is a screen between them.

Sometimes his watch loiters well past the end of the mission. He flips to the CCTV channels and stalks James' routes. No matter where he is, surveillance is usually a yawn to breach. He figures the agent suspects but he knows he fails to grasp the extent of it. James life is no longer his own as Tiago lives on vicariously through him. He's self-conscious about it. It's pathetic. He knows it's an incredible violation, but then he's already fucked himself over in that regard, so what's another strike when no one is keeping score?

However, it turns out to be often less of a reward than a punishment, but, it's one he acquires a taste for. Tiago derives a certain masochistic pleasure immersing himself in his own private hell everyday. There is no happiness, no satisfaction to be gained watching the agent douse himself in booze and quick fucks that never mean a fucking thing, but what's especially agonizing are those occasional sleepless nights when a restless James will exile himself to the solitude of his veranda accompanied by only a bottle and too many pills. He'll chain smoke and stare off into the stars with his gun in his lap and a disconsolate expression that makes Tiago wonder if he put there. 

It's with great frustration and guilt that he follows the agent's relentless pursuit of him. He makes little progress because Tiago can't allow James to find him. He longs to span the gap, reach out, and in his weakest moments it takes everything he has to resist.

Far too often he finds his cursor idling over the single command that would overlay the MI6 feed and send the agent a direct transmission. His finger twitches itching to press the key and it takes monumental self control to stop himself, which he usually has to follow up by two or three Xanax.

Tiago's selfish regret and painful bouts of longing are only pacified by the reminder that letting James go was an act of selflessness.

It's just that, sometimes he second guesses whether or not it was the right thing to do and the nagging thought fights him tooth and nail.

The clincher is Vesper. It was hard to watch James fall in love with her, harder still to watch her betray him when he thought for a time that she might be his saving grace. Tiago was almost ready to let her have him. Almost ready to turn off the cameras. Almost ready to turn away with the belief that she would be good for him. And then she died and he watched as James broke just a little more. He thinks the agent had convinced himself of the same thing Tiago had; that had she been who he thought she truly was, whom she originally presented herself so convincingly to be, that James might've had a chance for a semblance of happiness.

Then one day, following him on a particularly treacherous mission, he taps into the tail end of a conversation, hoping to gather a few essential details: James and a female companion are walking along the pier talking ships, and James mentions in passing that he aspires to sail his own someday, granted he makes it to 'someday'.

His companion titters. “Sailing the seven seas by yourself might get lonely,” she replies suggestively.

“I don't intend to be alone,” James corrects, “I expect to have a co-captain, of course.”

“Oh?” She asks, expectantly angling to hear herself named in this fantasy.

He disappoints her and stuns Tiago in one feel swoop:

“That is, if he ever pulls his head out of his arse.” 

The woman quickly replaces her wounded pride with sympathy.

“Your lover?”

James apparently decides he has little to lose by confiding in someone he knows he will likely never see again.

“Once. It was many years ago. We were both young,” he answers.

“Still carrying a torch after all this time?”

The agent is silent for a long stretch.

“Have you ever seen yourself living an entirely different life than you do?” James eventually asks his companion.

“Haven't we all?” 

“Most of the time, the idea is enough,” he explains, “But far too often these days, I'm finding it isn't.”

They spiral off into less personal territory before they part ways and Tiago cuts the line, but the conversation replays in his head for days afterward, every word like barbed wire cutting through the armor around his heart until he's looking at the blueprints of the Chimera and directing it's immediate commission.

The decision seems to make itself. The moment it's complete, they'll sail off into the sunset and everything else can go fuck itself.

Before that day arrives, he speeds up a few odds and ends, closes a few transactions and clears the way to finish M's career. It'll be the icing on his cake.

And then James falls and it changes everything. It tears apart his entire world and so he decides it's past time to upturn the rest of it for everyone else. He'll burn it all down and he'll do it with a smile on his face because none of it matters anymore. His sanity quits that day. 

He'll kill M and then hand off his empire to the highest bidder, pile every last cent aboard the Chimera with a few tanks of gasoline, sail out to sea and like a good captain, go down with his ship.

Tiago has already passed sentence on himself and M when James turns up alive and by then it's too late. He'll entertain no possibility that will veer him from this course however appealing it's presented. The moment M shunned him, refusing Tiago the apology he deserved from her; the acknowledgment of her failing him and failing James seals the deal.

He'll fail neither of them.

 


	28. Chapter 28

From somewhere behind him, Tiago can still hear the ensuing altercation; several shouts indicate the agent is putting up a damn good fight, struggling against his captors as they attempt to subdue him. A few more seconds pass and by the sound of it, the scuffle has ended and a there's a brief chirp in his ear: 'Captive's disarmed,' a voice reports. This brief but vital update permits him to resume unencumbered.

 _Mother's calling,_ he thinks to James, _I'll give her a goodbye kiss for you._

He has to admit, it was a stroke of genius on the agent's part-- fixing his own survival as M's insurance. Of course only his lover's life would outrank his thirst to strip that bitch of her own.

 _Ah, but even the best laid plans of mice and men go astray,_ and James little scheme, as clever as it had been, had failed.

With a glance at his watch, Tiago hastens his pace.

Time is of the essence. He knows that the agent recognized the only way to lure him out here would be to do so outside MI6 sanction, but he also knows Mallory is a perceptive son-of-a-bitch who's had his eye on 007 since the very moment he returned to service, thus, Tiago expects SIS is bound to swarm up their way in short order.

He'd devised on relying on his AW101 to evade them, but thanks to James, that plan is out the window and even though he'd promptly made arrangements to contract alternative transport, he estimates they'll abort with their tails tucked between their legs the very moment their radar identifies the first Chinook.

Outside of a miracle, Tiago does not anticipate he'll walk out of Skyfall tonight a free man-- however, as annoying as it is, it's an inconvenience that will be shortly mitigated by M's demise.

Once again, his actions will result in abandoning James, but the end result will justify his sacrifice. Still, he regrets how it will hurt him. If he were to turn around and look behind, even at this distance, he would still be able to see the agent, but Tiago knows he can't afford this luxury; any last, backwards glance will only serve to cripple him.

As for the time being, he trusts his men will be able to keep the agent detained. It shouldn't be too difficult considering by now the idiot is probably half-frozen after his little impromptu dip in the pond.

The memory brings a grin to his face. James is a stubborn, reckless fool, but regardless, at least he'll be safe, and this knowledge sustains Tiago.

In his pocket, his hand tightens around the grip of his Steyr as he looks up at the old chapel. It looms over him, dark and ancient, but the threat it casts is tired; penetrable, and inside the crumbling stronghold his fate is calling. Tiago feels the not so subtle force of it; the invisible hands pushing him forward, pulling him toward it-- he can't help but think that no matter what direction he'd chosen, his entire life has always been leading him here as surely if had been written in the stars and it's empowering to feel chosen, even if it comes at the expense of martyrdom-- even if it costs him the only thing in his life really worth living for.

By the time he reaches the foot of the hill, Tiago finds himself short of breath, his lungs tight and aching with the chill. He has to rest for a few seconds; he's never found early spring in the north particularly pleasant and he's poorly adapted for it after years spent in the tropics.

Clumsily yanking off his gloves, he rubs his hands over his numb cheeks until they sting back to feeling; cursing James and his bloody homeland before redepositing his now frigid fingers back into their insulated warmth.

However, he concedes that the cold is what makes the night sky this crystal clear. Plus, this far away from the blaring lights of Edinburgh and in spite of the dense clouds of smoke smoldering from the ruins behind him, Tiago can see the constellations twinkling brightly up above; fixed, flickering pinpoints blazing through eternity on borrowed time-- beautiful and beyond reach, primitive suns of faraway worlds; once reigning sovereign before science stole away their mystery and myth and though Tiago's firm sense of pragmatism spares little space for spirituality, he can't help but feel humbled by their majesty and the awe-inspiring supremacy of whatever crafted their creation.

Still, in dissent with this concept is a seditious, angry voice that revolts at being used as a pawn by yet another master.

Also, and more poignantly, something in the air tonight feels strange and other-worldly: The cold isn't so much crisp as it is heavy and hard to breathe, swimming with restless spirits whose whispered warnings intrude upon his firm resolve: the insistent tug begs to be heard, shouting in the back of his mind that what he _means_ to do is not what he's _meant_ to do.

The thought foments, hatching into a nameless, ambiguous fear that anchors him back, slowing his step, but Tiago knows it's too late to give credence to any reservations and shakes it off-- the path paved is quite literally laid out before him. To deprive M her judgment day-- to deny himself the justice he's yearned for would be a betrayal of destiny itself.

Tugging up his collar, he gathers his coat firmly around himself and pushes onward, gritting his teeth against the blistering wind as it whips around the moor. There is little illumination to guide his way through the treacherous terrain as he climbs the steep bluff but he navigates by instinct, following the narrow trail carved into the craggy hillside until he reaches the summit.

The wreckage burning in the distance casts an orange glow over the chapel, shedding just enough light for Tiago to make out the small graveyard at it's doorstep: The family plot.

One headstone, the newest among many, catches his eye instantly:

_In memory of Andrew Bond and Monique Delacroix Bond._

“I'm sorry,” he whispers to their ghosts. _For every way I've hurt your son, and every way I'm about to._

On his way up, one of the weather-worn steps leading to the doorway gives out. It crumbles beneath him sending a small avalanche of rubble tumbling over the edge into the tangled brier below and immediately, an alarmed crow shoots out of it's hidden nest, screeching in protest. Tiago jumps back with a startled gasp as the bird swoops upward, it's harassed cawing loud enough to wake a village-- or in Tiago's case, to potentially spoil his element of surprise, but that's a secondary concern considering the beast is diving straight for him. He ducks away as the crow sweeps past him, spinning around just in time to watch his portent disappear into the black cloak of the night.

With his heart still racing, Tiago leans against the heavy door of the chapel and laughs in amazement.

 _If ever there were a time to be superstitious,_ he thinks with a shake of his head.

However, his amusement disappears the moment he steps inside the dark vestibule and with dread in his throat too thick to swallow back, he pushes open the inner door.

M's hearing is sharp and so her head snaps around to the unlit entrance the minute she hears the creak of it's hinges. He sees her. She sees him.

She's alone.

She's alone and she looks very small and very afraid and as much as this would be an ideal moment to celebrate his victory, he can't, because he feels none.

For a fleeting moment, the very sight of her defenseless and vulnerable summons a protective instinct he knows is a product of a bygone time, and since that time is past, he brushes it aside with the objective determination of the perfect executioner she'd trained him to be all those years ago.

It's a little insulting-- a little infuriating the way M looks at him-- as if he's the devil incarnate, as if she's undeserving of this persecution. But Tiago knows she isn't stupid. It's heartlessness; an innate selfishness rather than denial that renders her incapable of accepting guilt for her actions, for the crimes she's committed that have delivered them both to this moment.

Outside, he can hear the angry gales of wind whistling around the moors batter at the windows. Above them, a haunted chorus of moans wail through the creaking rafters and for a moment he wonders if the ghosts followed him in or were already here waiting, though, as his gaze sweeps around, he sees no apparitions but he does notice the crumbling masonry, the arched windows caked with decades of grime between the latticing, the abandoned, cobwebbed altar, and he thinks, that even sans a supernatural audience, for the setting of a final showdown, it's awfully ironic.

“Of course. It had to be here,” Tiago mutters with an amused grin, glancing around before settling his gaze back on M. By her baffled expression in response to this, she clearly hasn't followed his same train of thought.

“It had to be this way...” he explains to her. “Thank you.”

His smile as he approaches her is menacing and unmerciful, but although she doesn't deserve it, he will show her mercy. He will allow M to die with dignity. What she had done to him was monstrous but he's not the monster she sees him as.

She should know better but it's as if now, she sees only Raoul Silva: the Villain-- as if she's forgotten _Tiago Rodriguez: the Man_ completely.

It seems to have slipped her memory but it hasn't his.

All those many years ago, he was roaming about lost; no family ties, no friends, no connections. Back then he was just as every bit ambitious as he was brilliant, pent up and exploding with frustration-- longing for a way to express himself in a world that could never satisfy and then M found him; took him under her wing and provided her promising protege the perfect outlet.

In return, he idolized and adored her. She led him to believe she was worthy of his respect, his admiration. He was naive. He never suspected that all he was to her was a means to an end. She needed a brilliant agent, and for her, he was. He would have done anything for M and she used him and used him until the very moment, when he was of no further use to her, she found a convenient way to dispose of him and did so without apology.

The lesson she taught him has destroyed him in countless ways, but in others, it's served him well.

If she has any last words, now would be the ideal time to speak them but Tiago has no use for her excuses or ingenuous apologies and she knows it, besides, M's pride won't allow her to degrade herself in such a fashion. She refrains and he's proud of her for that. It's the first wise decision she's made in a long time.

“I can't find it!” Kincade announces as he comes up from the cellar.

“No, don't!” Tiago shouts, shooting off a bullet that blasts off a spray of brick and mortar behind the gamekeeper; it's a warning shot. _Don't interrupt this._

“Please,” he begs the old man, “Don't.”

The interloper doesn't have to die, but he does have to stay out of this. Fortunately for both of them, he heeds this and drops his weapon. Tiago's eyes return to M and he feels like the Angel of Death. She knows he's come to collect, but surprisingly, to her credit, she doesn't cower before him. He knows this M. He knows her well. She won't be intimidated; there is nothing timid in her stance, but her eyes-- her eyes betray her terror.

She also appears far too weary; her face is pinched around the corners as if she's been trying very hard for too long to hide an immense amount of pain and Tiago knows this expression very well; he's seen it in the mirror reflected back at himself for far too many years.

Confused, he takes a second to check her over. The moment his eyes connect with the reason he gasps. _He can't believe he missed it._

“You're hurt!” He exclaims, staring down in horror at her side.

He takes the blood-stained hand she's been holding over her wound to staunch the bleeding and gasps at the damage this exposes underneath.

“What have they done to you?” Tiago demands, anguished. M stares at him with a small frown; perplexed by his reaction as he anxiously worries over her: fixing her collar, straightening her buttons. After enduring this invasion for a few more patient seconds she can't help recoiling, discomfited by his familiarity, though it's granted him adequate time to observe, and he can tell by the pallor of her lips, the chill of her skin, that the blood loss has already been significant and very soon, without immediate aid, will prove fatal.

It's a marvel and a testament to her strength that she's even still standing.

“ _What have they done to you?_ ” Tiago asks again, blinking back tears, barely noticing the way M is squinting at him as if he's grown a second head.

This isn't the way this was supposed to go. M was supposed to die by his hand alone and he won't let anyone else steal this from him, even accidentally.

“ _You_ ,” he says, sparing a glance at the gamekeeper still silent in the corner, “Leave us.”

The old man gives him a hard glare before fixing his gaze back at M and for a moment he looks as if he wants to disobey, struggling in vain for a way to intercede.

“Don't be a hero,” Tiago advises him and after a long second, he makes the right choice and with a sheepish, apologetic nod in M's direction, takes his leave.

Tiago watches her eyes follow him out with silent desperation and grins.

“Good,” he whispers, gently stroking M's cheek. “Now it's just us.”

M flinches, shuddering against his touch.

“I'm sorry,” Tiago tells her honestly, “I'm so sorry they've hurt you. They shouldn't have.”

Tiago steps forward, gripping her shoulders with the intention of wrapping her in his arms. He'll hold her through this: he'll direct her to close her eyes.

It'll be quick. Humane. Painless.

M interprets his unspoken proposition correctly and although she makes no move to step away from him, her prohibitive expression speaks clearly in defiance and Tiago reluctantly defers to her wish, letting his hands drop back to his sides with a disappointed sigh.

“You're in pain,” he explains, “Let me help you.”

She frowns, standing her ground, stubbornly refusing his mercy.

“You understand, _it has to be me_. Let me help you and it won't hurt anymore. _I won't hurt you,_ ” he promises, offering his hand. She doesn't take it.

The sting of her rejection is expected, but still, it hurts that she could be this petty, this unreasonable, _this cruel_ to deny him after everything she owes him, even at her own expense.

It's so utterly unfair that an ugly hatred spawns inside Tiago, spreading through his veins, boiling like a poison. It cures him of his pity, crushing the remnants into a thick, foul, black tar of carbon malice. He feels his rage pulsing white and hot behind his eyes; it curls his hands into tight fist and grinds together his teeth, fueling him with violence.

_She wanted a monster and she's unleashed one._

With a savage growl he whips back, cocking his Steyr and M gasps as he levels the end of the barrel between her terrified eyes, however, in spite of her terror, despite her weakened state, still, she shows no sign of resignation--though she also does nothing to dissuade him either: She doesn't ask to be spared. She doesn't plead for redemption. She makes no feeble attempt to disarm him nor does she step out of range of his aim. Instead, she stands before him with her hard eyes steeled with challenge, _daring him_ and a flood of self-righteous, angry tears blur Tiago's sight as he trembles, fighting to pull the trigger.

Outside, the world wages war; a blast of wind gusts through the moors in a roaring squall, rattling the casements as if a surging ensemble of impassioned spirits have merged together, rallying to besiege the tiny chapel, and in confederation, the tempest within Tiago crescendos.

He nearly does it. He nearly fires, but then, at the very last critical second, something makes him inexplicably falter and he can't do it. Bellowing a loud howl of frustration, Tiago drops his gun away from M's face, astonished breathless by his defeat.

He can't make sense of it; this should be so easy: he's never encountered this sort of conflicting apprehension before-- he's always accepted the practicality of taking life where it hinders, but now, he somehow can't and the reason eludes him.

M's expression is almost equally aghast with bewilderment, apparently as surprised by his failure as he is. It's like a smack in his face and Tiago burns with shame. _She'd trained him better than this and he needs to prove it to her._

He _needs_ to end this. He needs to end her suffering.

And then, the realization suddenly dawns on him: _he can't end her suffering without ending his own._

It's a solution so obvious he doesn't know why he didn't see it before. Of course, it's a divergence from the plan, but then, his plan had been flawed from it's conception-- shortsighted in design, because he knew that once he'd reached it's conclusion he'd never see James again.

Now that he's taken a minute to finally imagine his life continuing beyond this moment, he finds he can't because it _doesn't._

Tiago hears M utter a startled whimper as he seizes her wrist thrusting the gun into her palm, before wrapping both their hands--his on top of hers-- around the grip. He wraps his arm around her back, bracing her as he raises the gun.

“Free both of us,” He begs, setting his chin on her shoulder and placing his head against M's so that the bullet will pierce through both their skulls together. “Do it. Only you can do it.”

_Do it. I'm ready. Lord knows I'm ready._

“Do it,” he orders, “Do it!”

“ _Stop!_ ”

The command shouted from the entrance catches both M and Tiago by surprise and after a second to recover, he's impressed to realize that somehow, neither have accidentally pulled the trigger.

Holding M firmly, he turns them around so he can see their intruder.

From out of the shadows, a soldier emerges.

A halo of light surrounds James as he stands before them, and though he's nearly out of breath and immeasurably exhausted, still soaked to the bone, windblown and probably verging on hypothermia-- he seems to almost glow with an aura of strength, but from where he's summoned it, Tiago can't begin to guess.

“My you're resilient,” he remarks, “and you have such impeccable timing, too.”

James bows his head in acknowledgment but his expression is solemn and his eyes never leave Tiago's as he cautiously approaches them, slowly making his way past the rows of pews down the aisle.

“Put the gun down,” he directs. The agent's voice is calm; unwavering in it's confidence, but Tiago still hears an unmistakably nervous edge to his request that belies the firm command of it.

“I doubt you really believe there's even a remote chance that's going to happen. Even you're not that stupid.”

The agent bristles at the barb.

“Because I'm the stupid bastard about to blow my brains out,” James retorts.

Tiago's lips curl into a cruel smirk.

“So what are you going to do about it, shoot me?” he snorts, “I'm _aquiver_ with fear.”

“Shoot you? With what exactly? With this?” the agent asks holding out his stolen beretta while slipping out the magazine. Tiago watches James turn it over to let the unspent cartridges scatter out to the floor, clinking as they bounce against the hard stone in front of him. When this demonstration is complete, he tosses the gun between the pews and wipes his hands.

“And if that doesn't completely satisfy you, perhaps I should get rid of this too,” he continues, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a knife.

“No point in it, is there?” James shrugs, dropping it to the ground and kicking it down the aisle to Tiago's feet. “I didn't come here for a fight.”

“Then why are you here, Double-oh-Seven? Come gate-crashing just to watch?”

“If you're going to kill M, if you're going to kill yourself, you're going to have to do it in front of me.”

Tiago's heart aches at the very prospect but does little to diminish his determination.

“Have it your way, then,” he retaliates grudgingly, tightening his fingers over M's around the grip, “Stay if it pleases you.”

M utters a small quavering moan as she feels the cold end of the Steyr pressed hard against her temple.

“James, _for the love of God,_ ” she pleads.

“Please, don't do this,” the agent repeats firmly, “Let her go.”

“I can't,” Tiago sighs, “It's too late.”

“Then if she dies, I die,” James informs him, unbuttoning his coat and holding it open to display it's contents. Tiago draws in a sharp gasp as he's shown the sticks of dynamite the agent has somehow reclaimed, jammed into the inner lining.

“You _fucking idiot_ ,” Tiago hisses, unbelievably furious. “Look at her, James, _look hard_ ,” he orders, turning M so they can both see her blood-stained side.

He watches the agent's eyes widen in realization before flashing back at him, burning with contempt.

“What have you done?” James demands.

Tiago scowls.

“I wasn't there,” he reports coldly, “If I had been, I would hardly have been so negligent to let it happen, let alone, to let it escape my attention.”

For a moment James vacillates between outrage and skepticism before turning to M for confirmation.

“Can you verify his claim?”

“It happened in the lodge,” M admits, damning herself.

“Why didn't you say anything?” the agent asks her and when she says nothing Tiago grins across at him, vindicated.

“As you can see, she still intended to rely on your scheme, even though she knew she would likely die, and, with only a sliver of hope that she might be saved-- she still put _you_ at risk.”

James responds with a look of exasperation that verges on patronizing and Tiago isn't quite sure what to make of it.

“You're so ready to condemn her,” he sighs, shaking his head, “But M knew it would never detonate.”

“ _It's a bluff_ ,” Tiago works out sucking in a deep breath between his teeth. He hadn't considered that.

“Obviously.”

“And you think this changes my mind,” he remarks, “You ante-up all your chips on the table, your last, only defense... and for what? Some hopeful notion that this will exonerate her? Magic away all the sins of her past just because for once, she wasn't staking her life on yours? If that's all you've got, James, I am sad to inform you, it's one hell of a pathetic attempt.”

Whatever confidence the agent has mustered flags in the wake of this denouncement. Tiago watches his unprofitable struggle to tackle together a quick Plan B and decides to save him the trouble. “Don't waste your time, James, there's nothing you can say that will stop this.”

“ _Oh for God's sake_ ,” M interjects, “Do it then. I'll be pleased to go to hell if it means you'll be coming down with me.”

“Finally, she's come to the light,” Tiago chuckles darkly.

“Believe me,” he promises her, “Killing us both will be my pleasure.”

“If you ever loved me,” James begs, “Please, reconsider. Don't do this.”

Tiago has to look away from the agent's forlorn eyes piercing into his own.

“ _Because_ I love you,” he corrects softly, “I have to do this. And if you ever loved me, I'm asking you to go.”

“You know I can't.”

““Either way, without medical intervention she will still die,” he points out, “At least this way, _my way,_ will spare her further pain.”

“It's a damn good thing the planes are nearly here then. She can be saved,” The agent informs him before fixing M with a worried look.

“I just spoke to Mallory. They're sending medevacs. We'll save you,” he promises her, “It's not too late.”

Filling with despair, Tiago chuckles. It's brittle and a little mad.

“I _won't_ let you take this from me.”

He can see the agent wants to make a rush at them but he's too far away to make a difference and he knows that any further action will only serve to spur the trigger. Instead, he stands there looking on at them helplessly with a stricken expression that breaks Tiago's heart to witness.

“Don't do this to me,” James whispers, “Let her go, we can still get away before they get here. I know these moors. We can hide. We can escape.”

“Please, that's _not_ the way this goes,” Tiago counters, “Even if I were to agree, even in the unlikely chance that you'd hold to your word and let me run, there isn't a slim chance in hell you'd just jump ship and go slipshod AWOL to join me on the lam. It's a pretty sounding promise, my dear, but let's not play make-believe. I'd have to be an absolute idiot to believe _you'd_ be that much of one.”

James laughs softly, sadly.

“For as often as you've watched me over the last two decades you sure as hell haven't been paying close attention. I spent half of those years trying to find you and failing that, the other half just trying to forget you and move on with my life. But no matter what I do, how hard I try, I can't. _Você está na minha cabeça o tempo todo._ _You are always in my mind and in my head,_ and I don't want to live another day without you in my life. I'm fucking tired of trying to convince myself that I'm better without you because I'm not.”

Tiago watches incredulously as the agent walks courageously forward. He's paralyzed from the first moment of contact, from the first moment he gently sets his hand over his wrist. James doesn't try to remove the gun, instead trusting-- _hoping--_ that he won't have to.

“I was never the one running from this and I'm asking you, please, this time, run with me.”

From far away, Tiago can hear the distant thunder of the advancing cavalry. He can also hear the urgency in James' tone, he can see the earnest longing in his eyes.

“We'll run away, start a new life, just the two of us,” he implores, “Together.”

_Together._

Tiago feels the last of his resolve break; his throat is as tight as if it were clamped in a vice and he can't speak. He doesn't know what he would say if he could.

It doesn't even matter whether he believes James. It doesn't matter if James believes himself.

In the blink of an eye, his hatred; his anger immolates. The dust that remains disperses, disappears, and he thinks he should feel disillusioned; bereft without the purpose that's sustained him but it doesn't matter anymore. He can see clearly now. He can see James clearly now.

James. James matters. He's all that matters.

The revelation emancipates him.

Tiago looks at James through heavy tears as if seeing him for the first time and hands him the Steyr. He releases M and she falls out of his narrow tunnel of vision which is now focused exclusively on the man before him. The knight has returned, only he knows now that while he thought he'd stolen his heart, he'd given his own to Tiago in return; he'd had it the whole time and never noticed.

James pulls him tightly into his arms and Tiago allows himself to be held.

“Thank you,” he says sobbing into the agent's shoulder. “Thank you.”

For the first time in so many years he feels whole and he knows what it's like to know hope again. Even if none of his lover's promises transpire, the glory of this feeling is deliverance.

And then, Tiago feels the blade staked through his back.

He cries out.

It's agony; sheer, intense, blinding pain that shreds through him, and stunned, he sags forward into James as his knees give out beneath him.

“Christ! Christ!” he hears his lover shouting, “What have you done?”

Tiago feels himself lowered quickly and carefully to the ground. From the corner of his eye he sees M drop the knife. It clatters to the hard stone and she collapses in the aisle, slinking against a pew for support.

“Only what you couldn't,” she gasps.

“Why? Why M? Why would you do this? He was neutralized, what the bloody fucking hell were you thinking?”

“That I should finish the job that I started,” M replies, “It's my last... my last service. The world will sleep better tonight... without him in it.”

“Christ, oh, fucking Christ, please, Tiago, don't you fucking die on me, ” James pleads.

He feels his lover's arms wrap around him as he lays on his side, propped against his chest. His head rests over James' heart and he can hear it's rapid beat as it hammers away in panic.

Tiago wants to say so many things but he can't breathe as his lungs fill with blood and as he's choking, gasping for air, he sees M's eyes close. She's gone.

He feels nothing. It doesn't matter.

“ _James,_ ” he says, mouthing the name, _don't despair, meu querido, meu amor, it's better this way. Dream of us, of the future we could have had. Live for me, live the life I wanted for you._

“For mercy's sake, please, please don't do this to me,” he begs, clutching him desperately, smothering his grief into Tiago's neck. He can feel the flutter of his wet eyelashes, the hot tears pressed against his skin.

_Thank you._

_Thank you,_ he thinks to his lover as his vision begins to blur around the edges, _I regret I won't be there for you. I wish we could have had more time._

He feels James finally lay his head in his lap, and he's glad because he can see his face better this way. His lover's beautiful blue eyes glisten as he looks down into his own.

The pain ebbs, replaced with a rush of something blissful and he feels content, happy in James arms though sad for his lover's despair. He hears his muffled crying, his vows of devotion, feels the warmth of their interlaced fingers, the tender intimacy of his soft lips scattering kisses across his face.

“Tiago, Tiago, please.” he hears him weeping as the world fades, “Please, Tiago, please don't leave me.”

_I'm so sorry, my darling, I'm so, so sorry._

“I love you,” James tells him, “I love you, I love you.”

_And I love you._

_I love you._

His heart beats one more time on this refrain before he sees the final glimmer of light flicker and extinguish: _I love you and always will._

 


	29. Chapter 29

Basking beneath the warm summer sun, James breathes in deeply the clean, salty air of the ocean.

Catching a good beam reach, he tacks on a header and turns the Chimera's powerful sails to cruise inside the lift, watching as the sparkling water splits at her bow.

When he closes his eyes it feels like flying.

A tiny beep in his ear informs James of an incoming comm from his Quartermaster. Were it anyone else, he'd be incensed by the interruption, but he's been expecting this call all morning.

“Double-oh-Seven, how's the holiday?”

“Splendid, I expect you got the memo then?”

“I did,” Q replies carefully, “But James, what exactly are you looking for?”

“Why? What did Mallory say?”

“He said you're a bloody idiot and you're going to get yourself killed.”

“I doubt those were his exact words.”

“No, they're mine. His were something along the lines of, ' _at least he won't be bleeding us dry on pension'._ I resent that you tricked me into advocating on your behalf to get you approved for this. It's a red-shirt mission. It's voluntary suicide.”

“So you don't predict my outlook for a safe homecoming looks very promising?” James asks, trying for Q's benefit to sound less hopeful than he feels.

“Statistically speaking, I have to say you have a better chance of taking tea with the Queen of England in nothing but her knickers than you do of coming back from this one.”

“That's a colorful way of putting it,” James remarks, “Would you place a bet on it?”

“My entire savings and my lucky jumper, James.”

“Good.”

“Christ,” Q sighs, “Try to sound less thrilled, will you?”

“I appreciate all your help on this,” the agent replies, fixing his mainsail with the wind shift. “Don't worry, I'll be fine.”

“I highly doubt that, but good luck anyway.”

“Thank you.”

“Take care,” the Quartermaster tell him before disconnecting.

A few seconds later, he sends through the coordinates and James prepares his course.

He has no intention of returning.

_Godspeed, Sailor,_ he thinks to himself, staring off into the horizon.

For the first time in a long time he feels at peace.

He'll be with Tiago again soon. 

 


End file.
